


Compromises in the Dark

by Sparcina



Series: Iron Webs to Covet [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Aphrodisiacs, BAMF Loki (Marvel), Blood and Violence, Both Tony and Peter are the victims, Bottom Peter, Canon divergent - Infinity War, Comforting Each Other, Confinement, Despair, Dubious Consent, Embarrassment, Food Deprivation, Fuck Or Die, Good Loki (Marvel), Gore, Happy Ending, Jarvis is still there, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Multiple Orgasms, No Privacy, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not Iron Man 3 Compliant, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Partial amnesia, Peter Needs a Hug, Peter-centric, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Prison, Protective Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Rough Sex, Self-Hatred, Sleeping in one bed, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Thanos courts Lady Death, The Tower is still there, Tony Needs a Hug, Tony is 40 something, Tony still has the arc reactor, Tony-centric, Top Tony, cruel!Thanos, eventual BAMF Peter, eventual BAMF Tony, minor characters die, peter is 16
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-07 10:47:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11621955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparcina/pseuds/Sparcina
Summary: Tony and Peter are made prisoners, with no memory of how it happened and no clue as to what will come next. The cell is too small, the silence filled with monsters, and they only have each other.When unexpected help comes at last, Tony and Peter are already broken, and quite ready never to see each other again. Fate, however, has other plans, as the Mad Titan's fleet is only months away, and Earth's defenses at their lowest.They're not ready. Not to fight a full-blown war, and not to face the consequences of a very personal nightmare. But they have come out alive of their prison for a reason, and their burgeoning affection for each other, deeply buried under layers of hate, fear and guilt, will have to prevail.There are NO spoilers for IW yet.





	1. The Cell (Peter's POV)

**Author's Note:**

> This is dark, folks. Get that teddy bear out of the closet and have a tissue box handy. Tags will be added as the story progresses (for more warnings, see end notes).
> 
> NEW (April 2018): This story is a work of fiction, and I don't approve of rape or torture in real life. If I get one more disparaging comment, I'll start moderating. **PLEASE READ THE TAGS!**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter wakes up alone and afraid. He's an Avenger, thought, and Avengers can't afford to be afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How is this my life? O_o I had a dozen Frostiron fics waiting on my computer before seeing Homecoming (beside the four novels I’m working on, of course) and now… well, I’m writing SpiderIron instead. I blame this new fic on RDJ, Tom Holland, and all of you enthusiastic readers <3  
> 

Something was wrong.

The room was bare except for a small bed, a matching nightstand, and a red carpet that stood out like a pool of blood on the grey tiles. Everything else was white: the walls, the ceiling, and his hands trembling in front of his face. The smell of fresh paint was too strong, the room too small, and it was all wrong. This was not how he’d gone to bed last night.

Cringing as if expecting a blow, Peter scrambled to a sitting position. But why would he expect to be hit? What had happened? His eyes traveled about the room, taking everything in, and widening...

He wasn’t alone in the room. Relief flooded him once he recognized who it was.

“Mr. Stark!” His voice sounded hoarse, as if he’d spent a lot of time screaming. Maybe he had. He scrambled to his feet... and barely resisted the urge to sank to his knees. The throbbing headache just behind his right eye was a clear invitation to crawl out of his skin, or perhaps curl into a ball for the next eternity or two. The dried blood he found at the base of his neck, and the coppery taste coating his tongue, twisted his nausea into agony. Panic bloomed into his chest so fast he was left panting.

He didn’t remember how he’d ended up here. Couldn’t. In this impersonal room, this _cell_ , where the only source of light was a halogen bulb dangling precariously from the ceiling. And it kept flickering. Peter had never been afraid of the dark before, but the combined effect of nausea and the growing suspicion that he suffered from amnesia caught him like a blow to the chest. He doubled over, expecting to throw up, but his stomach was empty.

Fuck.

The silence, eerie in face of his ignorance, seemed to draw shapes on the wall, mysteries that could kill, if fear was a bow and imagination a speeding arrow.

No, he thought, hugging himself. He couldn’t stay like this, paralyzed, like a sixteen-year-old caught in a bad spot. He was an Avenger, even if he hadn’t been given the title officially. More importantly, though, he didn’t know where this was, had absolutely _no_ clue as to how long they’d been there, and Mr. Stark, the reliable person in the room, was still as a doornail.

“Mr. Stark?” he tried again, taking a hesitant step towards the bed, as if not to jolt the man awake. He was breathing, right? He could see his chest rise and fall under the thin fabric of his shirt.

He looked down at himself and exhaled shakily. He wore the same grey, worn shirt, and an identical pair of black linen pants. He was barefoot. He didn’t want to be barefoot in this place.

The light almost flashed out of existence. Peter froze, half in a defensive crouch, forearms lifted to protect his face, and waited either for the darkness to swallow him or the light to stay on.

After a final epileptic show, the light stopped flickering for good. It even seemed to get brighter. Peter rubbed the heel of his palm into his eye and shuddered. Two steps later, and he’d reached Mr. Stark on the single bed.

The man looked peacefully asleep. His hair was a sticky mess, and it was partly burnt over an ear. An angry line marred his right cheek, and his lower lip had bled, but beside those superficial wounds, the man appeared whole. Anyway, it wasn’t as if Peter had a first aid kid handy.

It was only then that he noticed the absence of door. His headache shot pain straight into his bloodstream, and he collapsed on the bed beside Mr. Stark. He tried to think past the voice screaming ‘prisoner!’ in his head, but the headache kept getting worse, and his lungs couldn’t seem to draw enough air.

He laid a hand on a broad shoulder and shook it. “Mr. Stark?” His voice sounded pleading, young… very much like he was feeling right now. He didn’t know it yet, but those were the only words he would utter for many hours to come. Calm, first. But he would scream later when panic rode him. “Mr. Stark?”

The silence was deafening.

*

He must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing he knew, he was lying on the carpet once again, one arm twisted awkwardly under his head to cushion it. The headache had receded, but there was fresh blood at the tip of his right index finger. Peter stared hard at the droplet trickling towards his open palm. Had he prickled himself in his sleep? He touched his throat, reassured that the hand of his nightmares wasn’t trying to throttle him anymore.

He was pretty sure the average Avenger wouldn’t break down into a situation such as this. In fact, the rest of the team was probably trained to handle themselves in even more dangerous, maddening cases.

Well, he wasn’t. So he shivered, hands white-knuckled over his calves as he rocked back and forth, seeking a place of comfort in his swirling mind. It was not easy to find, not with all those question circling around his excuse of self-confidence like sharks, and Mr. Stark still asleep and impossible to rouse (he’d tried, god, he’d tried). There was nothing useful in the room (this _cell_ , corrected his treacherous mind): he’d made sure of it the last time he’d been awake, hunting every corner for anything that could be used as a weapon. He’d searched Mr. Stark too, cringing as he did so, but the man had nothing on him either.

His search for a door had been fruitless, although he’d felt every centimeter of wall he could reach twice, trailing his short nails in the vain hope to find a crack he could dig in to widen. He’d knocked on the floor tiles, one after the other, several times over, listening for the telling sound of a hollow space like they did in the movies.

Peter mustered what was left of his energy to stand and stare at his surroundings. Thinking. Trying his best to be an Avenger.

Ok, so Mr. Stark and he had been made prisoner; on that everyone was clear. He didn’t know where they were, when or if they would get food and water (a more pressing concern, even if he was too anxious to feel hunger yet), and who was behind all this.

What he knew amounted to very little, but he still had his wits about him, so he lowered himself to the bed once more and cupped Mr. Stark’s face, turned it slowly to one side and the other. He, too, had dried blood on his nape. And fresher blood at the tip of one finger.

Peter released Mr. Stark’s hand with a gasp, realizing he was squeezing it hard enough to cut his circulation. Fuck. Double fuck. Fuck to the power ten.

He steeled himself for yet another tour of the room. He might as well make himself useful while _nothing_ happened.

He shivered.

*

Hours later (or was it mere minutes?), he leaned his brow against the infuriating bland wall and slowly counted down from ten. He really missed his suit, and Mr. Stark would probably miss his own when he woke up. He was thinking more clearly now, and the less hazy his thoughts became, the faster his heart pounded. Like a time bomb.

He might not remember how he’d ended up here, but he has a clear memory of the battle yesterday. Or was it the day before yesterday? He’d been fighting a fresh wave of Chitauri warriors, courtesy of Earth’s new archnemesis, Thanos. Iron Man had been against Peter’s participation in the battle, but even with Loki’s help (that had been interesting for the time it’d lasted), the Black Panther, the Hulk, Vision and Iron Man hadn’t been able to hold their own. And Peter… He’d done his homework, so he’d gone to give them a hand, so to speak. New York was _his_ city too, damn it.

He liked how attuned they’d all become to one another. How the Hulk would send a flying vessel his way, to be caught in his webs. How he, himself, would trap a dozen or so Chitauri warriors into a small alley, where Iron Man would blow them to pieces of alien tech. He liked how dependable he’d become. An asset. Except that assets didn’t get kidnapped, and didn’t have their memories tempered with. Unless it was the blow he’d gotten to the head that affected his brain, which wasn’t much better in the long run.

He rubbed his hands over his arms. When had the room gotten so cold? For the sake of being thorough and warming himself up a little, he went through the cell _again_.  

This time around, he searched for cameras, but either the enemy was very good at hiding them, or they hadn’t bothered. Maybe all this was a mistake, he mused, hope flaring in his chest. They could have been forgotten somewhere; a lost cargo, to be opened in a century or two.

Still he went on searching, because it was the only thing he could do. He was more methodical than desperate now, not that it got him better results. He could be strong, he told himself. He  _was_ strong. The numerous battles he'd fought alongside Iron Man had proved as much. So he searched. And searched. 

When he became too tired and too hungry to move, he was also very cold. It wouldn’tr do, to go back to an uneasy sleep on the carpet.

Whatever.

Gingerly, hoping that Mr. Stark wouldn’t mind too much, he stretched out on the bed next to him. The warm radiating from his body already made him feel better. His stomach stopped trying to cannibalize itself, and his teeth even obliged him by stopping chattering. His jaw ached. Every muscle in his body ached. He was just worried for the other man, he told himself, not afraid for his own fate, right? 

“Good night, Mr. Stark.” He felt stupid talking alone, but nobody would ever know. Still shivering, he pulled the only sheet over the both of them and tried to let go of his fear- no, worry. It was so _cold_. He ended up burying his freezing hands between his knees and his face into the crook of Mr. Stark’s shoulder. Worry was cold, he suspected.

If he could relax, all the ice building around his hope might shatter. He sighed and squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for Mr. Stark to wake up and tell him there was no reason to be worried, or afraid. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony is next, with enough anger to match Peter's quieter brand of panic.


	2. Back to Square One (Tony's POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony has been kidnapped enough for two or three lifetimes. And what was Peter doing here?

Tony usually went to bed alone, when he bothered at all. He’d been known to make exceptions, or rather, one exception, singular: Pepper. She'd been the only person he'd ever allowed to sleep in his bed, even on the nights when they didn't have sex. He had trouble shutting down his brain long enough to get some rest, especially with company, but with the kind of perpetual insomnia that plagued him, it hardly mattered if Pepper shared his bed or not.

The problem was, the person curled up against his side was definitively not Pepper.

Alarm bells started ringing in the back of his head. Their call melted away the last remains of sleep as realization struck him: this bed wasn’t _his._ It wasn't his bed in HQ, nor in one of his five houses scattered around the world. It was too hard, too small, and the person plastered to his side, the warm beacon that had roused him from a deep slumber... They were too lithe, too young and too muscular (in other words, not quite his preferred type), and while Tony had taken his pleasure with men in the past, he was in a relationship now, with a woman.

As if waking up in an unknown place wasn't bad enough already, he felt weary and nauseous ( _concussion_ , his brain offered belatedly to expain the pain at the back of his head). He cracked an eye open, expecting Rhodey's new apartment, perhaps, or some place equally boring which his other senses couldn't identify on their own. Maybe he'd gone to bed completely wasted again, with an equally drunk 'friend'. At least he still wore all his clothes. He'd promised Pepper he would go easy on the alcohol, and he wasn't prone to cheating, not in the last couple of years anyway, but sometimes he was just really bad at keeping his promises. As for the other person in the bed...

He sat up so fast his head spun. Never mind the company. A cell. He was in a fucking cell. It took him all of three seconds to realize that he wasn’t having a nightmare.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

Scrambling to his feet, he arranged his body into a fighting stance, not caring if his muscles protested. He would fight the enemy, be it Hydra or another stupid terrorist organization. He didn't know who to blame yet, but it was only a matter or time before he...

His thought process stopped entirely as he turned back to the bed. The small frame of the kid was hunched on itself, soft limbs like porcelain folded against a thin chest. His brow was covered in sweaty bangs, and long lashes fanned over eyes which, Tony knew, would be the same brown as his own. 

Spiderman. Peter Parker. Tony groaned in dismay, swallowing back the urge to punch at something. Chris, the kid was barely eighteen... or was it seventeen? The suspicion that it was more like sixteen nagged at him for two horrible seconds. No kid, regardless of their age and their ressourcefulness, should ever find themselves locked up in a cell. He himself had ‘visited’ his fair share of them as a teen, but that was because he was Tony fucking Stark, the heir to the business throne of Edward Stark. He knew the game, and he could handle it, but the kid... He was only there because of him. Wasn't he? He had to be. Why else could they have ended up bunked in a windowless, doorless cell together?

Panic bloomed in Tony's chest. Pain followed, as if he'd been punched from the inside out, right through the hole where the heart reactor ought to be. Used to be? No, was; he felt the edges of the wound with a trembling finger, brushing the glowing reactor, all the while wondering. He rummaged through his memories, but to avail. His brain was totally reliable, and perfectly organized, but there was only a dark emptiness where answers ought to be.  

He stared at his hands in horror, as if they held the key to the disappearance of the last few… whatever it was he’d missed. He was hungry and thirsty and on the verge of a panic attack. Apparently, going to the psy (namely, Bruce) for a few sessions in anxiety management after the Chitauri attack only helped to a certain extend.

He couldn’t break down, he told himself over and over as he paced the room. He had to hold it together, because this, here, wasn't merely about him.

Peter. 

"Fuck." He rubbed at his temples, trying to breathe, in and out and in and out again, slow, he had to breathe, to relax, and ignore the mad pounding of his heart...

Just as he considered hitting a few walls, a painfully young face peeked over the cotton sheet, tired eyes immediately widening in awareness (and a healthy dose of relief, Tony noted with even more stress).

What was he going to do?

"Mr. Stark, you're awake!"

The kid scrambled to his feet, almost tripping over the blanket in his haste. His hair was tousled every which way, and an ugly bruise was slowly darkening over his right eye. There were deep purple bags under his eyes, eyes too bright and puffy, as if the kid had cried (and probably did). Tony knew he didn't look any better, in a shirt one size too small and pants too long. A prisoner’s clothes.

“Hey, kid.” He tried to smile and failed. How could the kid stand so damn proud and naively expectant? His hope was brighter than the light,  _he_ was brighter, and Tony was afraid to meet that challenge. Chris, he hated being a disappointment.

"Peter." What the hell had happened? He didn't ask the question out loud; it wouldn't do to show the kid how little he knew. Should he hug him, then? It was tempting, but a little voice in Tony's mind sneered that it would only end up with  _him_ crying in frustration. Embarrassed with himself, he cleared his throat. "You ok?"

"I… I think so." The kid touched the bump at his right temple. For the second time in as many minutes, Tony wondered if he should offer a comforting touch. It was in his nature to want and touch people; as a playboy, sure, but also as a man with a superhero complex, and a mentor. Wasn't he Peter's mentor? Fuck, his head hurt.

In the end, it was Peter who closed the remaining distance. His hand found his and fuck, it was cold and small and delicate in his own calloused one. Innocence looked up at him, still hoping for answers, still wishing for a miracle.

Tony had none. He let Peter work out his stress by squeezing the blood out of his hand with his superior strength. The pain helped, in a way; everything became so much clearer.    

"Do you know what they want?" he asked in his most business-like and panic-free voice, not wanting to upset the kid (and lose one hand in the process).  

“No.”

It sounded so final. Peter began to fiddle with the hem of his grey shirt as he told him about everything he'd found, which wasn’t much, and everything he'd tried to find. Tony led him to the bed so they could sit. There was no point in staying up when they both looked, and felt, so worn out.

Never one to focus his entire attention on one thing or person at any given time, Tony nevertheless found himself listening to Peter religiously. The kid _had_ been a busy little bee while Tony was busy sleeping off the drugs. He fucked hated drugs he did not choose to take, moreover when it led him to wake up in a prison cell with a blank space in his mind.  

"There are no doors or windows in this cell, but sometimes, they will create a matter rearranging doorway. I’m not sure how many of them were opened, but I saw it happen twice. It's always at the same spot," he clarified with a jerk of his chin towards the white wall opposite them. "On the other side, there’s some of room that also leads to nowhere. I cannot stand in that place, but it's at least one meter in width and length. Once I found a bucket… and a couple of hours later, there was a plate waiting.”

With a dejected look, he leaned down to retrieve a plate from under the bed. Too busy panicking for the two of them, Tony hadn’t noticed it. Not that it was worth a second glance, or appealed to him in any way.

His stomach, the traitor, growled.

"I kept you a half."

Tony eyed the plate, an unappetizing pile of grayish crumbles ran through by a spoon, with a healthy dose of suspicion. It looked downright nasty, and going by the smudges left on part of the plate, Peter had not left Tony a half, but more likely two-thirds of their meager fare.

"It isn't much, and it tastes foul, but it helps with the hunger," Peter offered simply.  

Tony waved at the plate. His stomach went on growling, but he wasn't the egoistical asshole the media tried to turn him into. "You eat some more first."

"But..."

"You need it more than I do."

Not wishing for a nice conversation to break into an actual argument, Tony took a tentative spoonful. It was exactly what Peter had said: good enough to puke. He forced it down anyway, perfectly aware that his favorite restaurants didn’t deliver in hell, no matter what spice-shy people claimed about shawarma. Under the kid's watchful eyes, he even took another bite. Swearing inwardly at their jailors' lack of cooking skills (it always beat breaking into tears), he finished his share, not wanting to encourage the kid to skip a meal.

Peter polished the rest of the plate so fast Tony cringed in sympathy. He remembered growing up, and being hungry. The kind was thin enough as he was… and yet here he was, acting all strong and determined.

"Have they given us water yet?" Tony asked lightly.

"No." It sounded like a question. The kid looked down at the empty plate, then at their linked hands. Tony hadn't even noticed that they were still touching. "But I'm pretty sure they'd taken samples of our blood at least once." He wiggled his index finger, brushing it against the back of Tony's hand. The warmth of it was welcome. How could he be so cold when he felt so feverish? Tony suspected the cold had more to do with learning that someone had prickled his finger in his sleep than the actual temperature in the room. The dizziness he’d hoped to get rid of came back with a vengeance.

Peter cocked his head to the side. "You thinking Hydra?"

"I'm thinking a lot of things, and that's a distinct possibility.” Tony squeezed his hand before letting go, ignoring the way the kid's mouth opened in protest. The kid was quite eager to protest, he'd learned, which was one of the reasons Tony found him so damn interesting. Peter Parker didn’t let other people walk all over him.

"Why don't you rest some?"

“I’m not tired… but if you think it’s best…”

The kid folded his hands in his lap and lifted his chin as if awaiting the next order. His relief at having Tony take over was blindingly obvious. The hope from earlier had subsided to a dull light that tugged at Tony's heart. Hope was a double-edged sword Tony sensed dangling over their heads.

He ran a hand through his hair and gritted his teeth. He just couldn’t stay sitting for any length of time, could he?

"Don't take it the wrong way, but I will have a look around. I know you already searched the place, and I'm sure you did a good job, but I just want to make sure we..."

"It's ok. "A wan smile tugged at the kid's lips. "I understand."

*

A portal finally appeared in the wall. Tony estimated two hours had gone by, even if it felt much longer to his frantic mind. Two fucking hours, and he had nothing to show for it: no tool, no instrument that could be turned in a weapon,  _nothing_. He'd hoped to find at least one camera, and his skin had crawled worse with every further failure. They were watched, of that he was two hundred percents sure. It was what these people did. At least in Afghanistan, Tony could talk to his captors. There had been his fellow cellmate, Yinsen, to whom he could talk as well. A physician whose whole family had died at the hands of the very same terrorists who'd imprisoned Tony along with SI firepower, and had saved his life not once but twice. And now he was dead.

Peter would not die, Tony swore to himself, feeling a delightful certainty sooth the raw edges panic had left in his chest. Tony would keep him safe. 

"Mr. Stark?"

A portal had flashed to life on the farthest wall, revealing the small room Peter had mentioned earlier. Well, room might be too strong a word: the space was high enough for a very small dwarf, and barely large enough to fit Tony's body. Fortunately for him, he only needed to stretch an arm through the portal to grab the glass of water.

Slowly, he lifted the glass to his lips and sniffed. Nothing. Most poisons and drugs were odorless, though, so it didn't mean anything. Still, he had to try. His throat was painfully dry, he needed coffee and answers and his suit and fuck, if he could get at least one of those things... Letting out a strangled moan, he took a slow sip, rolling the liquid around in his mouth. It told him nothing more than that he'd expected: lukewarm, stale, with an aftertaste of chlorine, and something spicy. Holding the glass close to his chest, he reached for the empty plate and put it back into the small  _thing_ on the other side of the wall that dared call itself a room.

"Mr. Stark? Can I have some?" The kid's voice was hoarse, and his lips were chaffed and bruised. Tony wanted nothing more than to give him the rest of the water right away, but he took his time going to the bed, careful not to lose a single drop of the precious liquid.

"Soon, Peter." He saw the kid reach the right conclusion and sighed in relief. He would have hated to explain himself while he tasted blood in his mouth, the blood of a fight yet to come, one he would carry on until death did them part. "Soon," he murmured again, cradling Peter’s hand and rubbing circles over his knuckles.

A full-body shudder ran through the kid. Tony closed his eyes as it spread into his body, simultaneously appeasing and painful.  He thought he heard a melody, faint in the distance. Humming to himself, the kid rested his head on his shoulder, prompting him to wind an arm around his waist. So warm. Tony thought it good that Peter was warm. Warm meant well. He, too, was warm. And getting warmer…

Before he knew it, they were both lying on the bed in a tangle of limbs. Tony let Peter bury his face in the crook of his arm before going back to that dark place within him.  

Whoever it was who'd put them here, Tony would find them and make them pay. He  _was_ the Merchant of Death. How odd, that the surname used to irk him so much; it was strangely fitting, in this new version of hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story could be anything between ten and twenty-five chapter long; it will all depend on my muse (I am almost done writing the first chapter of a third multi-chapter Spideriron fic, *sighs*). Tbh, I didn't plan anything but OS in this fandom, but as there are so many 'long' stories I'd like to read that don't exist yet, _someone_ (*looks around*) has to write them.  
>  Chapter 3 is on its way, slowly but surely :)


	3. Murky Waters (Peter's POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A first week goes by. Peter is worried that their captors might be easing them into mental breakdown... and there is that embarrassing moment he really could have done without.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the long wait, but I can't seem to find time for anything beside work! The next SpiderIron to get an update will be The Gift of Me, unless you all decide you want this one updated first. Enjoy!

Without a cellphone or a watch to keep track of time, seconds became hours, and days a first look at eternity. Nights turned into days, which turned into nights, which became an endless flow of interrogation marks in the fourth dimension. Peter never knew for sure when, and for how long, he slept. Of course, he hadn't followed a regular sleep schedule before their kidnapping, and he knew from Ms. Potts that Mr. Stark considered sleep even less useful than he did.

Letting go of the paranoia and the anxiety long enough to rest was a challenge they both responded to reluctantly.

Peter felt vulnerable, _was_ vulnerable when he slept; his prickled finger attested to that. He still had no idea (well, no certainty) what his blood was being used for, but even more terrifying than the ignorance were the possibilities… endless possibilities as to what purpose they served, why they had been chosen to rot into this cell.  

His poor sleeping issues at least offered a welcome distraction whenever his thoughts strayed too close to methods of torture. At times, the prospect of spending the rest of his life here, which was getting more realistic every day he didn’t wake up in his bedroom, filled him with such dread he feared he would actually throw up. But he couldn’t afford to be sick. Not in such a small, enclosed space, with his childhood hero watching over them…

“They sure take their sweet time.” Mr. Stark blew a huff of annoyance from his spot on the floor beside him. They were both sitting cross-legged, facing the wall where the portal always materialized.

It was mid-morning, Peter told himself. It was mid-morning, and he was waiting for May to join him in the kitchen. She would prepare pancakes, and he would laugh as she flipped golden pastries in the air with an expert twist of the wrist. Saliva flooded his mouth as he pictured the buttery taste, the fruit jellies, the chocolate spread, the maple syrup…

He’d much rather lose himself in happy memories than count the minutes until the portal appeared. Only one glass of water, and Peter liked breakfast. He absolutely didn’t get why some would willingly skip it.

Only one glass of water, for the two of them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter watched how the bored expression on Mr. Stark's face twisted into an angry frown. He could not blame him one bit; to share what little they wore them both down. They had argued at length when Mr. Stark first declared that Peter was to drink more than his share. Wasn't Mr. Stark more vulnerable, with the arc reactor so easy to twist off his chest, and the simple fact of his age? But Peter had let him win the argument, not because he thought the other was right (Mr. Stark was very much wrong), but to avoid more of that anger directed his way.  

He felt hollow enough as it was. No, he couldn't afford dissidence in their precarious position. He would be reasonable, even if Mr. Stark wasn't. He would be reliable. He wanted to be reliable. Perhaps Mr. Stark would stop considering him a kid then, and actually share his plans. Because he had to have a plan.

Yet Mr. Stark kept his thoughts to himself. They hadn’t talked much after Day 1, and the silence, only broken by small shifts in their positions, small noises of disquiet, and snoring, slowly rubbed him raw. Not that Peter had tried to talk much either, but that was because he didn’t want to distract the one person bound to help him get out of here.

For lack of talking, he stayed strong. Watched. On the rare occasions Mr. Stark fell slept, Peter was suddenly privy to a lot of tossing and turning, of whimpers of fright he had zero doubt Mr. Stark would be very ashamed to learn had ever left his mouth in his cellmate’s presence. Such an uneasy sleep may be constructed as the ‘mere’ sublimation of Mr. Stark’s agitation when he was awake, but Peter sensed something different at work, a sort of… fragility to the man he’d worshipped as a kid, and still did as a teenager. How Iron Man had flown with purpose, how well he’d fought off Thanos’ new wave of insect-like soldiers, how he’d blasted to ashes one of their smaller vessels, which had meant to pin Peter to a building and carve his way through his chest, how he’d saved his life again, and again, and again… Heroes did that. But heroes had weaknesses and nightmares just like everybody else.

The portal let off an electrical hum as it materialized, jostling Peter out of his thoughts. Mr. Stark let go of his goatee (he'd been pulling at it so often since they'd ended up here Peter was surprised there was any hair left) and reached for the glass. His tired, blood-shot eyes met Peter's.

"Drink."

Yes.

Peter wrapped his fingers around the glass and drank greedily. Mr. Stark's eyes flickered to the water, and Peter could almost sense his thirst in his own throat, worsening his own, like a hand pressing against his windpipe. When he coughed, he hastily closed his mouth around the rim of the glass so none of the water would escape.

It tasted peculiar, like every time. Peter had stopped worrying about it after the second glass, more concerned about survival than chemicals, even if chemicals, technically, could kill. While he didn’t know what their captors wanted, if was not their deaths. Not now anyway.

Peter liked his lips, trying to salvage every last droplet of precious liquid before handing the glass over to Mr. Stark. They both watched the wall in front of them, and the hole through which the glass had appeared. Peter wondered what Mr. Stark was thinking. He was presently considering a very unappealing scenario in which their captors slowly took everything away from them, including their water. The bed. The food. The ‘bathroom’. Perhaps they were simply there as entertainment, to appear in a documentary depicting how far human beings could fall, how savage and merciless they could become, once everything was taken away from them.

Peter held on to the quiet certainty that he wouldn’t become a monster. He didn’t knew why or how, but he would retain his sanity, his humanity.

That was the meaning of reliable.

Goosebumps broke all over his back and neck. He twisted his head around, but nobody watched him. Well, no one _he_ could see. 

“You ok?”

Mr. Stark appeared concerned. Peter shrugged, scratching the back of his head. He sensed the start of an itch, and wondered if their cheap clothes were to blame.

“Yeah.”

He took the empty glass from Mr. Stark’s hand and set it back on the other side of the portal; they’d learnt early on that should they fail to return it, the next one would come much, much later.

In an hour or so, a bucket would be available at this exact spot. Peter didn’t care if he had to twist and crouch awkwardly over it to relieve himself. What bothered him was not even the absence of doors between Mr. Stark and himself; they were both guys, it shouldn’t matter. It was embarrassing, yes, but nothing compared to the knowledge that they were both watched every. Second. Of. Every. Day. Without end, without mercy.

He licked his parched lips, still hoping for the lingering taste of water. It tasted sweet, somehow. When he’d told Mr. Stark as much, he’d expected questions, but the other had only mumbled something about spicy, patted his knee, and returned to mentally dissecting their situation for an out.

“You sure you ok?”

Mr. Stark had moved on the bed a few minutes ago, where he now lay sprawled, the fingers of one hand drumming on the side of the mattress. He appeared relaxed, which Peter found odd. Perhaps the man had burnt so much energy worrying and planning he had none left to be fidgety.

Peter drew his knees to his chest, circled them with his arms, and hummed. “Yeah. You ok, too?”

He felt awkward and stupid for asking, but Mr. Stark’s easy answer dispelled his unease. “Couldn’t be more fine. Just miss Jarvis. Can never quite plan my day around without him.”

Peter’s eyes widened slightly. Was Mr. Stark in a talkative mood? The surge of relief that hit him made the imaginary pancakes pale in comparison.

“I miss Karen, too.”

“She’s great, right?”

“She’s the best.”

Mr. Stark clicked his tongue, propped himself on his elbows and looked down at Peter.

“I’m very proud of you, you know.”

“Whatever for?”

“Well, for not screaming and running in circles, I guess?”

Peter snorted. He wished it sounded less artificial. “It’s not going to help.”

“That’s for sure.” Mr. Stark grinned then, and Peter was so envious of his ability to change expressions at will. “It could be worse, I’m well aware of that.”

“Worse?”

“I could be stuck with Rogers.”

Peter didn’t quite know how to answer to that. He _was_ aware of what had happened in Siberia, and could say in all honesty that his respect for Captain America had dropped to chilly levels that day.

He should keep Mr. Stark talking. For the first time, he considered the act of exchanging sounds a source of warmth, and felt reluctant to let go of his newfound blanket.

“It could be better, too.”

Mr. Stark arched an eyebrow.

“You could be with Ms. Potts.”

Peter couldn’t help it: the grimace he got in return was just too funny, and he burst out laughing. He was so tired felt tears spill on his cheeks, and he rolled onto a ball on the floor, one fist covering his mouth.

“Yep. That pretty much summarize how ideal that would be,” Mr. Stark declared with a dramatic gesture, rolling his eyes. Much too soon, the serious mask was back on. “I don’t think you could have struck a better deal, kid. I’m going to get us out of here.”

“I know you will.” Peter said it so fast, but he believed it with every cell of his being.

Mr. Stark winked at him, before rolling to his side and stretching his arms.

“After all,” he said in a lazy tone, “can’t keep you away from your lady for too long… What, did I say something wrong?”

Peter had been in the process of wiping the tears when he’d frozen, heart lurching painfully.

“I… We… I’m not sure she will want to see me again, after what happened with her father. The role I played…”

He rose too quickly. The room (the _cell_ , the damn _cell_ ) spun in vivid colors around him, the white of the walls, the red of the carpet, of his own blood, of their blood mingled on the tiles, their twenty fingers prickled so often, so deep, they lay still in a pool of it, forever caged, forever gone…

“Kid. KID!”

“I think I…”

Peter fell to his knees. Before his head could hit the floor, a strong arm wound across his waist, supporting him. Beads of sweat rolled down his brow. He blinked them away, and swore to himself it was not tears this time around. He could hear his ragged breathing, and as much as he wanted to calm down and get it over control, he couldn’t stop the sheer panic that spread through his limbs with lightning speed.

What if they _were_ stuck here for the rest of their lives?

Mr. Stark’s voice seemed to come from far, far away.

“…an you sit? Think you can sit? Come, I’ll help you sit.”

He’d always knew Mr. Stark was strong, but even their harsh conditions here hadn’t put a dent in that formidable strength, it seemed. Mr. Stark gathered him into his arms and placed him on the bed, still warm where he’d lain moments before.

“Put your head between your knees,” he instructed.

“P-panic… attack,” Peter gasped. He felt too shaky to be ashamed.

“Yes.”

Mr. Stark’s hand was warm on his nape.

“S-sorry…” He felt so cold, so damn cold. He’d felt cold from the moment he’d been shoved into that cell, and Mr. Stark was the only hope he had, a candlelight's glow in the dark universe his fear painted for him. He’d heard that Thanos’ world could drive a man mad for its all-encompassing emptiness…

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat. “I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s ok.” The calloused fingers had starting massaging the tension away. Peter leaned into the touch. He hadn’t known he’d craved it until he started being coaxed into abandon.

“Inhale.” He inhaled. “Exhale.” He did. He followed the simple instructions, all the while basking in that warm sense of security Mr. Stark provided just by his presence, his fingers digging into the tense muscles, touching knots, untying them, deep inside of him.

“You’re doing well.” A hand in his hair, ruffling it. “Good boy.”

Peter didn’t have time to school his expression, but Mr. Stark was looking elsewhere, his attention clearly caught by a new idea. Peter sighed inwardly, grateful for the small mercy of keeping his sudden blush for himself. Those words, _good boy,_ held no hidden meaning coming from Mr. Stark, but considering that they were the ones Peter had hoped to hear from Liz, should they ever get past first base…

He tried to sleep for a long time, but every time he closed his eyes, a strange fever struck him, that neither the single sheet or the room’s temperature could explain. He watched Mr. Stark as the man paced the room, and then proceeded to stretch and do some push-ups. Watched him, and wondered what their captors planned behind their hidden cameras. Wondered why he couldn't recall how he'd ended up here, in this cell, with Mr. Stark sweating and panting as he trained, shirtless, all those taut muscles on display, and oh, Peter felt very, very warm, and he wanted... wanted...

When he fell asleep at last, it was with Mr. Stark’s back to his, and a definitely pleasant taste on his tongue.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder if that taste mean something? (*winks*) Next chapter will be told from Tony's perspective.


	4. Confidences in Limbo (Tony's POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks into their imprisonment, Tony becomes slightly too ‘distracted’ to focus on his suspicions.

The problem with schedules was that Tony didn't care for them, and always did his best to wreak havoc with everybody else's. It’d been the tipping point of many a fight with Pepper, and still was, even if he’d gone to great lengths to actually wake up on time for board meetings and sign Everest-tall piles of contracts whose content was hardly worth his time. He needed all the few years he had left to create, to revolutionize scientific fields in dire need of his genius, and also, of course, save the world from itself and every flavor of alien invasion. Unfortunately, years of drinking himself silly and what Pepper labeled his 'lethal recklessness' would not allow the rest of his life span to stretch past a decade… if he managed even that.

And now, prisoner of an unknown enemy, with a kid he'd admired and had sworn to protect dependant on him (or so he'd told himself), he wasn't even sure the sun would shine on him tomorrow.

He missed his coffee. He missed it almost as much as he craved for freedom, and the knowledge that would lead him, them, under the open sky. He wasn’t too difficult on the specifics by that point. Sandwiched between ten Chitauri warriors and ten other dumb assholes? Bring it on. Face to face with Hydra’s latest bioengineered threat to humankind? Any day of the week. 

Their conditions weren’t _that_ bad. After all, it wasn’t like they were cuffed to the furniture or suffering the Chinese water torture, or forced to… No, better not to think about that.

They were given food and water. It was the bare minimum, sure, but they were still alive, and relatively healthy for prisoners. The blood they parted with unwillingly during their sleep bothered him, but it could have been so much worse. What did those people _want_? Two weeks of wondering, and he still couldn’t tell for sure.

Money was a safe bet, but unlikely in this case; people who ransomed others, Tony had learnt the hard way in his youth, would have tried to scare them shitless a long time ago. If he was honest with himself, and he tried to be for Pepper’s sake, he _was_ scared, or he would be more stupid than that traitorous excuse for a captain gave him credit for, but he was scared because he didn’t know anything. He liked knowledge. It was what kept him alive.

So, not for money. Weapon enthusiasts, then? Tony would be very surprised if it was the case; terrorists and other warmongers would have offered him means to build something a while ago, not locked him up in a bare room.

Had the kid alone been taken, Tony would have considered a pedophilia network, because hell, no one knew about Spiderman's identity beside Tony and a few chosen Avengers. A boring business meeting in Thailand years ago had taught him that lecherous old men did have a thing for young, slender, innocent-looking boys. Tony had shivered in horror upon imagining that kid sold in a dark alley to suck cocks, but thankfully prostitution wasn’t a probable fate either, or else he wouldn't have been thrown into the bargain. Now, he was quite aware of his good looks, and while he could be considered slender if someone was staring at him through one of those fancy mirrors that messed with proportions, he hadn't been young or innocent in a very long time.

So they were not here for money, weapons or sex. The remaining options weren't many, and Tony had settled on the most disturbing (and probable) of all.

Studying. If logic still prevailed, then the kid and he had caught the fancy of some mad scientist or scientific community, which may or may be not related to Hydra (or to some very suspicious aliens he could have sworn wouldn't survive a nuclear blow to rhe face)

Objects of studies… He almost wished some crazy middle-oriental guy wanted him to build weapons again. Beside, why had _he_ been taken, and not another Avenger? Let’s say, the Hulk or Vision? They certainly were more interesting from a scientific point of view. Was Loki involved somehow? The God of Mischief and double-entendre had sort of helped them fight off the Chitauri, claiming that he bore a grudge against against their leader (whose name Tony couldn't recall at the moment), but Loki was crazy… which meant that in another life, they might have gotten alone like a house on fire.

It was at times like that, considering Loki’s allegiances and his own role in the grand scheme of things, that he really yearned for a good bottle of scotch. Questions kept coming, answers were long in waiting, and he just didn’t know what to do so the kid would stay sane until they got out.

He didn't share his suspicions with him. As a matter of fact, he even lied to his face when the kid asked him if it could be the Chitauri, because yes, it could, but Tony would not be the one to give that kid more stuff for nightmares. It was bad enough that neither of them remembered how they'd ended up here. One second, they'd been defending Earth, and the next, they were reenacting Prison Break, minus the tatoo map and the good plan.

*

The kid's first panic attack took him unaware. Oh, he knew well enough how to deal with his own breakdowns, but it was another story entirely when darkness swallowed your only source of light.

He’d done his best to comfort him while mentally scolding himself for bringing up that girl, Marie. Or was it Lidia? He couldn't remember, and as he stroked the kid's neck, trying to infuse some warmth into the trembling frame, he could feel his own chest tightening. It wouldn't be long before he, too, lost it completely.

Intent on postponing that moment as far in the future as possible, he’d massaged the kid's shoulders, telling him to breathe, giving his voice a soothing yet authoritarian quality so that the kid would listen and calm the fuck down. Tony could hardly hold his anxiety against him, but he felt so powerless in this small, impersonal room, without the key memories that would help him figure a way out. When the kid had started to relax against him, his eyes glazed and lips parted on a shaky laugh, he’d forced himself to smile, knowing that his voice would carry the hope he tried not to scare away.

"You're doing well." He’d patted the kid’s head, surveying the room. He could spend the next ten years locked in there and never find the damn cameras, and still he would stare at the blankness of the wall every time the back of his nape prickled. "Good boy," he whispered.

It was shortly after that episode, perhaps twelve or thirteen hours later, that Tony became aware that his frustrated silence helped nobody. The kid had not been happy during his panic attack, of course, but some light had returned to his eyes when Tony had started talking. So the kid wanted him to talk. Well, Tony could talk. He’d talked a great deal to Yinsen back in Afghanistan, so why had it taken him so long to realize that the kid _needed_ to hear his voice, needed to pretend this was just another day at the Tower? Perhaps because he felt responsible for him in a way he’d never felt for Yinsen.

So he started talking. After a short while of embarrassing monologues from each side, the two of them found a rhythm. They wouldn't speak about technology and their related projects for obvious reasons. While Tony mourned the lost opportunity (he relished those conversations because hell, the kid was brilliant), he still found himself smiling at times, amused by the kid's lightning-quick speech and ever changing facial expressions. Damn, but that kid  _moved_ when he talked... much like himself, actually. Tony would have found it more amusing if they would have shared those anecdotes over a glass of scotch in his penthouse. Well, scotch for him; what should he give the kid, water?

Water. Tony was momentarily distracted during one of Peter's stories. Water was due to arrive soon, and yes, Tony was thirsty, but there was something about the liquid that unnerved him. The taste, for starters. He'd written it off as some kind of drug, and had concluded it was harmless enough, because he didn’t feel any different, but maybe it took time to act. There were plenty of slow-acting poisons in nature, and some perverse drugs designed to drive people mad with…

"... so he basically told everyone that I'm Spiderman," Peter concluded, jerking him out of those depressive thoughts.

“I totally saw that coming.” He was quite proud of his ability to pick up a conversation at any point and come up with a relevant comment, even if he felt like cringing. Especially when he felt that way. "He's not very good at keeping secrets, your Ned, is he?"

The kid's lips twitched in a genuine smile of amusement. All of his features relaxed, as if that awful cell had ceased to exist. Joy shined brightly in his eyes, and Tony couldn’t look away from such an addictive motivation to find the damn exit door.  

Eventually, he shook his head, and the spell broke. The kid reached for the water through the portal that had just materialized and handed him the half-empty glass after he’d taken his share.

The spicy taste, Tony realized, had definitely grown stronger; it flooded his mouth and slid down his throat, warm and pleasant, strangely titillating. He locked eyes with the kid again, and saw the same contentment etched on younger features.

How odd, he thought, that he’d never noticed the kid’s eyes before. Blue. Beautiful. That kid would grow into a handsome man, if those fine features were any indication. His body, as far as Tony could see, was well proportioned. Lithe and well-built, subtly muscled. That white skin appeared soft, and for some disturbing reason, he found himself licking his lips. Longing.

Those blue eyes had never left his face. The kid’s cheeks were slightly flushed, his lips parted, still wet from the water. Tony cleared his throat, quite sure he should be upset, but his head was filled with cobwebs, and his loins burned...

“Have I ever told you about my father?”

Under absolutely no circumstances would he talk about twice-damned Howard, and yet he found himself opening up so fast and so easily, like he only ever did with Rhodey or Pepper or a fucking good bottle, that he almost felt dizzy. He told the kid about his father’s unrealistic expectations, about his favorite boy (damn Rogers and his Terminator boyfriend to the bowels of hell), about his death.

He’d seldom met such a good listener. Peter looked at him as if every word mattered, as if giving his attention to him was worth being trapped in a cell, as if every teen his age was always so mature, so dependable. So Tony gave it all to him: his father’s intolerance, Obi’s treason. He didn’t use humor to soften the emotional blow to himself, didn’t care if talking about Pepper hurt. Pain was good. Welcome, even, in a place so empty that this kid might very well be the only thing worth looking at, listening to, touching…

He looked down at their linked hands. He didn’t remember moving to the floor, but it felt so good to touch another human being. To share warmth over confidences. He liked Peter, and the kid, he thought, liked him well enough. He could have struck a worse deal.

“Aren’t you tired to listen?” he asked after a while.

The kid shook his head. Tony lifted his chin with a finger, examined the bruise over his right eye. It was healing nicely. Without knowing why, Tony leaned to press his lips to it. The kid shivered in his arms. Thinking he was cold, Tony suggested they got into bed.

They'd taken on sharing the bed at pretty much the same time every 'day' some time during the second week. At first, Tony could barely fathom why the kid would want them to share that excuse of a bed; it was small enough for one already. A few nights of sensing that the kid relaxed whenever he joined him under the single sheet had encouraged him to try it more often. If he couldn’t get them out just yet, he could at least make sure the kid slept relatively well… as well as a prisoner could sleep in the cell of an unknown prison.

That night, Tony fell asleep with the kid’s face buried in the crook of his shoulder, and hell, who was he to deny them a little comfort? When small fingers curled in his shirt and a thigh pressed between his own, he didn’t fight it, didn’t want to, couldn’t. Something was wrong, sure, everything was wrong in this place, and yet when Peter's sweet scent hit his nostrils, something uncoiled deep within him, a hunger left unnamed that reminded him of a hunter closing in on his prey, and tasting victory in the air. 

Tony frowned, but the strange heat spreading into his tired body refused to go away. His arm tightened of its own volition on Peter's side, and he could feel his fingers soaking up the warmth from the youth's body. The kid whispered a few words that Tony didn’t catch. They were so close, so warm together. Where had gone all that cold from before?

As always when faced with a problem he couldn’t solve and was neither life-threatening nor overly interesting, he simply ignored it.

“Sleep tight, kid.” His hand inched closer to a soft belly as his mind spiraled into exhaustion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dub con starts in the next chapter. All I can tell is that it's neither Peter nor Tony's fault.  
> I want to hug them both now <3


	5. Have Mercy (Peter's POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It can't be helped. The betrayal, however, is real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in one week, I almost can't believe it myself.
> 
> DUB-CON AHEAD: be warned!

Peter was dreaming of a warm mouth on his cock.

“Liz,” he moaned, back arching and hands fisting in the sheets. “Oh, god.”

He didn’t dare open his eyes just yet; the sensation easily superseded anything he’d ever experienced. Not that he’d explored much beyond some hurried solo time in the last couple of years. He didn’t even _remember_ bringing up the subject with Liz, especially after what happened with her father.

And yet here he was, lying on a small, uncomfortable bed, with his girlfriend on her knees on the floor, working his cock with gusto. If heavens existed, it had to be that mouth, right here. Peter became aware of the wanton noises coming out of his own mouth, but he couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop. Liz was humming as she worked his shaft, in approbation, he thought. Encouraging him to lose his mind, and spill himself in her mouth? Hadn’t she called him a good boy not so long ago? Perhaps that was the reason she was rewarding him?

But they had not even kissed once! protested a little voice in his head. Were where his manners, how could he-

“Oh, _fuck!_ ”

She’d taken him all the way to the root and swallowed. Peter let out a harsh exhale and dug his fingers in the sheets, drilling holes in the mattress in an attempt to focus that formidable strength of his elsewhere. He didn’t want to hurt Liz, never wanted to hurt anybody, but the tip of one of his fingers burnt. It was hard, impossible, though, to focus on so small a disagreement, when Liz’s mouth danced on him like that.

He should be afraid. He remembered that much, but it was so hard to do anything else but lie on his back and take it, enjoy it. Lust thickened in his veins with every play of tongue and lips, it was an actual, physical presence beneath his temples, beating like a displaced heart, enhancing every noise coming out of his partner’s stuffed mouth (oh god, oh god, oh god-), transforming the mere brush of fingers into searing want.

He parted his legs as far as they would go and cried out as nails pierced the tender skin of his inner thigh. The mouth on his cock sped up its rhythm.

“YES!”

Something fabulous uncoiled from deep within him and reached his extremities between one breath and the next. An invisible dam he hadn’t even known existed within him broke in a million pieces, letting undiluted pleasure flood everything that he was, had been and would ever be. He came with a roar, trashing on the bed like a masterless puppet while he spent himself deep into his girlfriend’s throat. He came so hard he heard her choke at the final snap of his hips.

He thought of apologizing, but the idea deserted his mind like a traitor. The only object of his focus was that mouth still locked on his cock. The knowledge that Liz had swallowed every drop filled his groin with renewed arousal. He whimpered at the cool sensation of a tongue licking him clean. Part of his body alerted him that he should rest, but how could he stop now that he’d risen so high already?

Peter squeezed his eyes shut even harder. If this was a dream, he didn’t want it to end.

If this was real… But it couldn’t be real, could it? The bed wasn’t right; the scent of that place, even worse. He wasn’t in his apartment, or at Liz’, but did it really matter? He’d just climaxed, and he was fully hard again.

That wasn’t right, even for someone his age, he thought, right before a feverishly-hot body pinned him down, and another cock touched his.

Another _cock_? This wasn’t Liz! Opening his eyes, Peter jerked to a sitting position, his superior strength allowing him to push back a full-grown man.

Mr. Stark. Peter’s eyes widened. Traveled between their bodies, taking in their matching erections. Mr. Stark’s eyes were all pupils, flooded with so much greed Peter froze like the proverbial rabbit in front of the headlights. His breath hitched.

Mr. Stark had just sucked him off. Peter was so embarrassed he expected his cock to deflate instantly; instead, it twitched, as if every chemical reaction happening within his body right now only fed his arousal further. He was so, so turned on, by everything. Mr. Stark’s eyes on him, hungry, dark eyes, tugged at that part of him that cared only for food and coupling, survival in the most sensual sense. It scared him, the potency of his desire, of his _need_ swelling from just a look. And that fear only fueled his arousal.

This wasn’t right. Not right, he repeated himself even as his mouth watered at the sight offered to him. Fuck, but he wanted, but no, he couldn’t want this, he didn’t even like men, and Mr. Stark didn’t think of him this way, did he?

Peter pushed his fingers in his eyes, trying to clear his mind, but he might as well try to see ten feet in front of him in a blizzard. Or wake up when he already was awake. He felt Mr. Stark’s calloused hands (how could he have thought they were Liz’s for even one moment?) on his shoulders and arms, caressing, coaxing the fire of arousal higher. His thought process grinded to a halt.

“Mr… Mr. S-Stark-”

“ _Peter_.” The man’s voice was hoarse, and for a moment, Peter thought that it might be from what he’d just done to him. “Never thought you’d be so pretty. Perfect.”

“I-”

Mr. Stark mashed their mouths together.

Peter didn’t even have time to wonder properly at the burnt of facial hair when he felt a tongue push against his lips. He hesitated but one moment, and almost regretted his yielding when that hot tongue licked inside of his mouth, spreading the taste of his own cum everywhere, but Mr. Stark’s reputation as a playboy didn’t stem from nothing. The man knew how to kiss, and even if Peter had never once imagined being kissed by him, he could understand why some people would willingly sell their souls for one night with this man.

The _man_. Peter tried to push him away, only to discover that both his wrists were trapped between their heaving chests. Panic started to rise, only to sputter like a wet firecracker and recede in the wake of sharp, all-encompassing lust. He tasted blood in his mouth but relaxed in Mr. Stark’s grip, enslaved by the marvelous skills that were bestowed upon him.

He’d never had his tongue sucked before. It was quite enjoyable.

“’Want more,” he found himself whispering when they parted for air.

Mr. Stark peppered his face with kisses.

“Want more of you too, kid. _Everything._ ”

Peter found himself lying on his back. It felt a little silly to wear only his shirt, and Mr. Stark was fully naked anyway. He struggled out of his last piece of clothing… and froze when he saw Mr. Stark move forwards to straddle his chest, furiously pumping his cock. His cheeks were dark red, and his eyes… Peter didn’t recognize them. There was neither care nor affection in them, only a swift determination and ravenous hunger Peter feared all the more for how it mirrored the beast clawing its way inside of himself.  

“I don’t- can’t-” He wasn’t sure what he meant to say. What couldn’t he do? Fuck, but he wanted Mr. Stark like he’d never wanted anything in his life. He had to have him.

So why being afraid? Why care if the room wasn’t his own, if he couldn’t recall how he’d gotten here, if men usually-

Mr. Stark cupped his chin. His thumb caressed his lower lip, digging into it. “Have to get it wet, so it’s easier. Forgot the lube somewhere.”

“Lube?” Panic rose again, but failed to take over the lust. They weren’t doing this, fucking, were they?

He didn’t want that.

He didn’t think he could live if he didn’t get Mr. Stark inside him.

Didn’t want.

Couldn’t.

Wanted…

“That’s it, kid, open wide.”

Curiosity felt alien. Still, Peter obeyed and tried to make room in his mouth (his jaw already protested) for the head of Mr. Stark’s cock. Mr. Stark’s _cock_. _Mr. Stark’s_ cock. He was sixteen. Mr. Stark was a friend, and a mentor of sort. They fought enemies together, they didn’t…

“Such a pretty sight. So eager.”

A small, pitiful part of him wanted to protest and scream, but it was so tiny; it wasn’t worth listening to it, was it? Peter blinked, and a first tear ran down his cheek. Mr. Stark fitted another inch of cock in his mouth, praising him, one of his hands still on his chin, guiding him.

Peter started to choke. Was this how it felt, to give a blow job? Mr. Stark sure sounded like he’d enjoyed getting down on him earlier, so maybe Peter was doing something wrong. Desire nevertheless lit his skin everywhere he was touch. He was salivating so much.

“Fuck _yes._ ”

Mr. Stark started fucking his mouth in slow, shallow thrusts, but it didn’t last; before Peter could actually start and enjoy the intrusion, Mr. Stark drew back. Peter started to prompt himself on his elbows, but Mr. Stark shook his head.

“Not enough.” He shook his head again, harder, as if he, too, struggled to dislodge whatever it was that made them yearn for-

“It’s the water!” Peter choked. “The water they g-give us. There’s an aphrodisiac in it.”

But Mr. Stark wasn’t listening. He took hold of Peter’s legs and hooked them over his shoulders. “No!”

This time, the panic was powerful enough for Peter to jump out of bed and put some distance between them. He. Did. Not. Want. This! They had been drugged.

Mr. Stark’s lips curled into a knowing smirk. In a moment of clarity, Peter realized that his own metabolism probably processed the drug faster, allowing for his real self to peek through the need. Mr. Stark was probably chained within himself. Entirely.

Peter shivered in unease.

“Hard to get, uh?” Mr. Stark licked his lips. A trickle of blood trailed down his chin into his goatee. “Want to play that game with me?”

Peter lifted his hands in a plea. Listen, he thought. Please don’t do this. Fear and arousal wared within him. Arousal won, but Peter was stronger than that; perhaps if he wore Mr. Stark down, the other man wouldn’t have any energy left to pursue him?

The cell (the _cell_ , his mind bellowed) was by no means big, however, and Mr. Stark cornered him easily enough. As he was fighting to pry himself free from the rough hands lying claim on his body, he considered simply knocking his cellmate cold. Surely Mr. Stark would thank him later for it? He couldn’t want it any more than Peter did. If he did, it would mean that Mr. Stark was no better than their jailors, and _that_ , Peter refused to believe it.

“Stop fighting.” Mr. Stark’s voice took on a pleading note. Peter thought he saw something like fear flash far beyond those two dark pools of want and greed that surveyed his every move, but it might be a mere figment of his imagination. Hope trying to grow in sterile soil. “You want it.” A calloused hand closed on his cock, and yes, despite the fear and the panic, Peter was still rock hard. “And I…” Mr. Stark rocked his hips, dragging his own erection up Peter’s belly, painting it with precum. “… can’t resist you. Want you so bad. Come in the bed, let me have you-”

Peter made to knee him in the groin, but the back of his head hit the wall hard.

Pain exploded in his skull. He wasn’t sure how it happened, if it was an accident, or the drug in Mr. Stark’s veins hacking the last of his humanity, but it made no difference by this point; he was laid on the cold floor, the top of his head snug against the wall, and Mr. Stark was shoving three fingers into his mouth.

Still dizzy from the hit to his head, Peter merely relaxed his jaw; Mr. Stark fucked his mouth until his fingers were all wet with spit, and then he shoved one in Peter’s ass.

Peter let out a small pained noise. There was nothing pleasurable about the sensation, but his cock still stood proud, arched over his belly like a reminded that he should enjoy this, and beg for more.

He bit his lip until he tasted blood, and after that, he didn’t stop shivering. The wetness at the back of his head spoke of more blood, but Peter didn’t think he would bleed out. Didn’t care.

They would get out of here, he chanted to himself to distract himself from the pain as a second finger was added, just as rough as the first. It would be all right.

“Will feel good,” Mr. Stark promised, his other hand fondling his balls, caressing his buttocks. He probably couldn’t keep still any more during sex than the rest of the time. Spreading his fingers, he scissored him hastily, trying to loosen the tight muscles.

Peter couldn’t relax. It made every twist of fingers that much uncomfortable, but Mr. Stark didn’t relent. Just when Peter thought he was going to add a third finger, Mr. Stark kissed him hard.

He also replaced his fingers with his cock.

“So… tight. Oh fuck. Oh, Peter-”

Peter didn’t fight him. They would get out of here, he told himself. It would be all right.

" _Peter_."

The head of Mr. Stark's cock popped inside, and Peter’s eyes rolled back into his skull. The pleasure was all artificial, and even then, it could barely dull the pain. Peter couldn’t see Mr. Stark anymore, couldn't see anything, really, with how hard he was crying. It was too much, too soon, and every inch of that fat cock sliding inside him caused all his body to tense. It made it so much harder, and more painful, but he couldn't relax, no matter how much Mr. Stark urged him to.

The squelching sounds of his own flesh parting made him sick. He turned his head to the side, pretty sure he was about to throw up, but Mr. Stark caught his jaw and kissed him again, hard and needy, as he sheathed the rest of his length in one harsh thrust.

Peter screamed in his mouth. The taste of blood was everywhere; it was the only scent he could perceive, too, and it gagged him. Mr. Stark swallowed his every scream as he started pounding. Something sticky trailed down one of Peter’s thighs.

He didn’t need to look to know what it was.

“So… good,” Mr. Stark panted against his mouth, lapping at his bloodied lips between words. “I will get you… off, you’ll see, _fuck_ , you’re so tight, never had so g-god, I love you-”

Peter tasted bile… and yelped in surprised pleasure when the cock splitting him open hit what could only be his prostate.

“That’s right, beautiful.” Mr. Stark grinned. His hair was plastered to his brow. Sweat shone on his cheeks, parodying tears. “Say my name.”

“T-Tony…”

And Mr. Stark, _Tony_ , nailed that sweet spot again. Pleasure and pain rose in tidal waves, fighting for his attention. Tony adjusted his legs on his shoulders and leaned over him, bending him in half. Peter’s head hit the wall continuously now. His prostate was now stimulated with every thrust, and Peter couldn’t help it: he climaxed with a cry of agony. Mr. Stark, no, _Tony_ , licked the palm he’s used to smear the cum on Peter’s belly.

“Taste so sweet.”

Please stop, Peter thought, but the words wouldn’t leave his mouth. His brain wasn’t working properly, and he kept shaking, from a need twofold that burnt his skin at the seams. His head his the wall again and again and again… Tony was ramming into him with so much force, Peter doubted a normal human being would have simply bled like he was. He tried to enjoy it, even did, to a point. Like a wounded animal welcomed the prospect of the final blow, perhaps.

They would get out of here. It would be all right.

Tony came with his name on his lips. For one moment, his eyes looked almost like his own again, and Peter spied loss there. And questions. So many questions that his own brain couldn’t form anymore.

He lifted one hand to caress Tony’s cheek. _Tony._ It was a sweet name, for someone who could be so sweet, but had forgotten themselves. His hand shook. Tony’s hand shook, too, as it closed on his.

“We will get out of here,” Peter croaked. “We will be all… right.”

He had no more tears; one rolled down Tony’s cheek.

“Can’t stop.” His eyes were wild. He kissed Peter’s mouth with a tenderness at odd with the returning hunger in his eyes. “Can’t stop wanting you.”

They were both still hard. Peter felt raw and used, angry and worried, but lust reigned in its new kingdom. He couldn’t fight it any harder, lest he seriously hurt Mr. Stark. It wasn’t his _fault_.

Mr. Stark turned him on his belly, and Peter let him arrange his body. The puppet did have a master; it watched over the two of them, pulling invisible strings, from outside their shared hell.

The cold floor was like ice against his cheek, Peter mused, tongue thick in his mouth. Unless it was the bed? He’d lost all notion of time and place, his only tether to reality that warm body taking, claiming, burning with the same lie that branded his. He couldn’t say how many times Mr. Stark had taken him, only that he wasn’t done. _They_ weren’t done.

Pain was an old friend now. Betrayal, too; a dark, discordant song performed by Mr. Stark’s mouth and fingers on the broken instrument of his pleasure.

The betrayal of his own body as it sought yet another note of this music, though, was infinitely worse.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I need a hug now. Probably you, too.
> 
> *Hugs*


	6. Weaker Than My Dreams (Tony's POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If the pleasure is excruciatingly good, why does it feel like he's drowning?  
> He can't stop.  
> Can't.  
> Stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written to [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YUpqo2Q7A40), because trance.
> 
> I thank all of you lovely readers for sharing the burden of angst in this one. Hugs!
> 
> Warning: still DUB-CON/NON-CON!

Tony woke up with a low moan, his hard cock begging for attention. He could feel a lean body pressed against his back. Letting out a sharp exhale, he turned around to meet a very young face, a boy’s face. Instead of filling him with horror (where did that thought came from?), the view caused his cock to swell further between his thighs. He reached for a red cheek and stroked it.

“Still dreaming, beautiful?”

Beautiful was an understatement: this boy was perfection in the flesh. His plush lips, parted on increasingly arousing pants, begged to be nibbled and devoured; his temples, to become an altar to his kisses; his throat… Tony latched his mouth on that pale column of flesh, sinking his teeth to mark it. So perfect, so innocent; it tugged at something dark deep inside him, a fantasy he’d always contained, and rig- No, _this_ was right.

Their presence in that room wasn’t some crazy experience to satisfy some aliens’ curiosity, or something else equally ludicrous. He and Peter were meant to end here, to indulge in their mutual desire without the world’s projectors on them. Fame did have its downsides.

He caught Peter’s lips in a searing kiss. Delicate hands wrapped around his neck, and Tony took it as his cue to deepen the kiss. Fuck, he’d been living in close proximity with the kid for weeks, at the very least. He couldn’t help it; neither of them could. He had to take care of him, in every way. It gave him relief, and pleasure, to know where the other was, to see his body move, every flexing of muscle, and now… He got to taste every inch of him, to better own him, and protect him from… He wasn’t sure who was the enemy, but Peter was _his_ , and whoever was watching them, whoever had brought them here to be mated, had to realize that.

When he let his fingers brush the kid’s hard cock, a buzzing sensation filled his body. Fuck, but the need was so fierce. He gritted his teeth, then tried to relax, kissing his way down the boy’s body, flinging the sheet to the side as a canvas for Peter’s beauty.

His knees hit the ground. He was a bit old to be in that position without some kind of cushion, but he couldn’t be bothered to care about anything else but the youth’s arousal. The swollen head, the beads of precum that kept dribbling down, wasted… Tony caught the kid’s wrist into one hand and wrapped the fingers of his other hand around the base of that enticing cock. Thin but long. Perfect. With a hum of satisfaction, he locked his lips on the tip and licked at the moisture.

“… oh, god.”

Peter was awake, it seemed. With a grin, Tony flattened his tongue on the slit, and pressed hard. The kid’s thighs shook; that was good, very good. He played with the head for a while before taking him in deeper. It’d been some time, but he hadn’t lost the trick, and the kid shook harder, wanton noises praising his skills. Wanting more of those, Tony swallowed him down to the root, fighting his gag reflex with all his might. It was easier than he’d thought.

“Oh, fuck!

The kid parted his thighs like a whore, and with a growl Tony sucked him faster.

“YES!”

Tony listened to the kid’s surrender as semen hit the back of his throat. His only regret was that he didn’t get to taste him.

But they weren’t done, now, were they? Seeing the kid’s cock harden again, he grinned and leaped on the bed, pinning that delightful creature down. At the sensation of their matching erections brushing each other’s, a soft moan escaped him.

The kid’s eyes snapped open. Before Tony could understand what was happening, he was pushed back, and the kid was sitting, shock writing all over his face.

He _had_ known it was Tony down here, hadn’t he? No, it didn’t matter what he’d thought, as long as he knew, from now on, to whom he belonged. Taking in the heady blush spreading down the kid’s torso, he licked his lips.

Damn, but he couldn’t keep his hands off that one for long.

“Mr… Mr. S-Stark-”

“Peter.” It was so much better now that he was awake. Awake to feel _everything_. With his heightened senses… Tony shivered. “Never thought you’d be so pretty. Perfect.”

“I-”

Tony shut him up with a kiss and caught his wrists between their bodies. The kid didn’t really want to flee; he was merely overwhelmed, and who could blame him? Tony Stark was lavishing him with all of his formidable attention, and Peter…

Was the kid a _virgin_? Hit by a fresh wave of arousal, Tony bit down hard on the kid’s lower lip. Eventually, Peter relaxed, and Tony rewarded him by sucking his tongue. He could sense how his partner melted in his hands, surrendered to his mouth, and he thought he might just die of happiness when those sweet words were whispered against his lips.

“’Want more.”

“Want more of you too, kid. Everything.”

He pushed Peter on his back and straddled his chest, hand moving furiously on his own cock. Now that he’d felt that mouth against his, he needed to have it on his dick. Seriously, why was the kid looking at him with such terror? Tony was certainly not backing away now, not after being teased like that. Cupping Peter’s chin, he told him that he _had_ to suck him off, for his own sake. Tony was a good lover, after all.

“That’s it, kid, open wide.”

Fuck, he could have killed to have the kid’s mouth around his cock like that. Such pretty lips, stretched wide to accommodate his girth, shy, unexperienced…

“Such a pretty sight. So eager.”

He pushed the head of his cock inside, encouraged the kid with his hand, with words that he’d told a thousand lovers a thousand times already. The kid’s mouth was heaven, his throat to claim a sin he would gladly repeat, be it with or without a soul.

Still, this wasn’t enough, and the kid had no clue what he was doing. There would be time for mouth-on practice later.

“It’s the water! The water they g-give us. There’s an aphrodisiac in it.”

Water? What was the kid rambling about? He spied something in the kid’s eyes then, a fear so potent it felt like a punch to the face. Water.

Drowning.

No, this was stupid; he was not drowning, he was taking hold of Peter’s legs and arranging them so that he could fu-

“No!”

He swore viciously as the kid escaped his grip and put as much distance between them as possible. A game. It was all a game to him.

Tony had a sudden urge to slap him hard across the face. This was no child’s game! They needed to fuck, and the longer they waited, the worst it would be, he just knew it. He would slap him, spank him, hit him until…

He backed him in a corner faster than he’d expected. The uncomfortable sensation of having his head plunged into water returned, but with the kid so close to him, that warm body displaying all the signs of arousal, of want, the same want that lit up his every nerve, he could ignore the random thoughts polluting his mind.

“Stop fighting. You want it.” He grabbed the youth’s cock. “And I…”

Suddenly his chest felt too tight, his skin raw. He couldn’t breathe right. For an awful moment, he felt like he was trapped underwater, miles deep under the surface, with no means of escape. The faces of his captors in Afghanistan floated all around him. He tried to breathe through his nose, and water rushed in: in his mouth, down his throat, in his nose…

“… can’t resist you,” he said, retracing the conversation in his mind while he rubbed his cock against the kid’s belly. “Want you so bad. Come to the bed, let me have you-”

For some unexplainable reason, the kid tried to knee him, and Tony’s control snapped; he grabbed the kid by the throat and slammed his head into the wall. Feel! he wanted to scream, but couldn’t. You can’t resist it, you can’t escape it, you can only, feel, damn you, why don’t you _feel_ …

He lost contact with reality for a moment. The next thing he knew, he was kneeling in front of the kid, three fingers in his mouth. Yes, he had to get him all wet, he remembered. He was going to be tight, oh fuck, he _had_ to fuck him, now, now, NOW…

Peter’s reaction to his fingering didn’t bother him so much. His first time hadn’t been the best one either, and besides, who cared?

He was drowning-

“Will feel good.” He stretched his ass with two, then three fingers. So tight, so good. It would feel even better soon, oh fuck, he was going to come right here and there if he didn’t fill that gorgeous hole in the next three seconds.

He kissed the kid to distract him from the pain as he pushed the head of his cock inside him. The friction was amazing; the resistance, maddening.

“Peter,” he whimpered.

The relief as he sheathed the first half of his cock went beyond words. Without lube, he couldn’t fit more, not yet anyway. It would take some work, but they had time. So much time to enjoy each other... He came so hard he saw stars.

Drowning so deep, drowning past redemption-

“So… good,” he panted, licking at the kid’s lips. “I will get you… off, you’ll see, fuck, you’re so tight, never had so g-god, I love you-”

Sensing how his dick filled with blood, he didn’t leave the warmth of the kid’s ass just yet. He was going to make him feel good, so that he would want more, beg for Tony’s cock like the little whore he was, so hungry for his cock, oh yes, the kid couldn’t hide it, and Tony wanted nothing else than to give it to him, fill him up until that pink little hole was filled with his seed, until the kid couldn’t walk-

Drowning-

Shaking his head to shake off the parasite thoughts, he angled his hips to press on that tiny, wonderful bundle of nerves hidden within the kid’s ass. The surprised, appreciative yelp pleased him. He drank in the sweat on the kid’s cheeks, and he wanted to lick them, to lick every part of that body sprawled on the floor like an offering.

“That’s right, beautiful,” he crooned. “Say my name.”

Drowning-

“T-Tony…”

He snapped his hips forth, once, twice more, hitting Peter’s prostate repeatedly. There was _bang-bang-bang_ sound disrupting the harmony of their mating, but his focus was on Peter’s mouth forming a perfect ‘O’, the obscene, delightful noises of their skins meeting and parting, connecting… When the kid toppled over the edge, Tony spread that sweet semen all over his stomach before licking his hand.

He climaxed a few thrusts later, crying out Peter’s name. He blinked furiously then, as pleasure and pain warred in his chest. The sensation of drowning hit him again with full force, and he gasped, sensing a new emptiness where the arc reactor ought to be. Peter’s eyes were wide and red, full of tears, and Tony couldn’t look away, even as the hunger for him, for his skin and his pleasure, tore him apart.

“We will get out of here. We will be all… right,” the kid whispered.

It sounded like poetry, and Tony’s vision filled with blood. Red all over this pretty face, so much red, and he…

“Can’t stop,” he whimpered, kissing the kid slowly, reverently. He wiped the tear rolling down his own cheek. Why was he crying? Right, the blood…

No, no blood; just pleasure.

He turned Peter on his belly and caressed his length. Mine, he thought, rubbing himself against the perfectly rounds buttocks jutting out to rob him of his sanity. Mine to take, mine to defile…

He wasn’t drowning; he was burning, so hot everywhere, and he ached so bad, he _had_ to fuck the kid again. They fit like they were meant to share intimacy, and belonged to each other.

He moaned the kid’s name, his lips ghosting over his nape, as he sheathed his cock to the hilt. The brutal pace he set earned him a strangled sound that shot straight to his groin.

“That’s it, so good…”

He chased his own release, not bothering to ask Peter if he was alright, barely acknowledging the thought of oversensitivity. He rammed into him with as much force as he could, pinning those fragile-looking shoulders to the floor, discarding every inhibition that had ever made him human. The kid could take it, a little voice whispered in his ear. He was stronger than him. Addictive. He’d been asking for it, sleeping to his side, staring at him with those wide, hungry, expectant eyes, and now he was getting what he deserved.

With a savage growl, Tony bit down the youth’s neck. There was a crack, but he couldn’t be bothered to search for its cause.

“I’m close, I’m so close,” he gasped. “Fuck, Peter.” He licked the sweat running between his shoulder blades, hands bruising his narrow hips. The kid gasped something unintelligible.

“So close…”

*

It seemed like ages had come and gone, and still he was fucking Peter. It felt so good, so liberating; he didn’t think he could ever stop.

*

There was water in his lungs, and the maddening sensation of his heart breaking.

Tony Stark didn’t care. Tony Stark took what he wanted, and he did, fucking the kid in every position he could think of. Damn, but that kid was bendy. So pretty, even with his eyes closed, and his breathing ragged. He hoisted him on the bed, pushed his thighs apart and pressed his head between them, using his tongue to push his own cum back inside that pretty hole.

There was so much semen, but that wasn’t the only thing he smelled and tasted. Blood, he would recognize everywhere. He could see it, taste it.

And it excited him, as much as it sickened him.

His mind was hazy. How many _times_ had he fucked him? Even as the thought of him, and something resembling worry entered his mind, his cock throbbed at the sight of all his seed soiling the bed sheets, white and red, semen and blood, so much life he’d created, _they’_ d created.  

And he was drowning-

“Love you, love you, love you…”

The next time he came, he cried out in pain and passed out on top of a warm body.

*

He dreamed of water. He dreamed of a cage with neither lock nor key, in which he’d voluntarily gone, to seek redemption. Redemption from what, he didn’t know.

*

His chest was wide open, his beating heart threatening to fall out of its cavity. He tried to put it back to safety, but his hands were bound, and brown eyes stared down at him, judging.

There was no mercy in them.

*

When he woke up at last, he was lying on the floor. He groaned, rolling to his side. Blood smeared his knuckles, he noted with growing unease. His cock and ball felt like they’d been put in a meat grinder. When he dared steal a look down, he cringed back in horror: his whole length, albeit soft, was covered dried blood.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. FUCK!”

He scrambled to his knees, heart pounding madly. Oh no, this couldn’t be happening, what had he _done_? He didn’t remember eating, but he threw up all over his own hands.

If he could have crawled out of his own skin, he would have. Peter’s face was all he could see, the fear in his eyes, the hurt, the acceptance. And Tony… He’d fucked it. Fucked _him_. He’d put his fucking dick into a sixteen-year-old, he’d hurt him, he remembered the blood so well he could still taste it…

He remembered drowning, too. He wished he could choke on his own shame.

But first, he had to get the kid out of here, even if seeing his face was probably the last thing Peter wanted, and with reason.

“Kid?”

His voice was hoarse. Fuck, he even _sounded_ like a pedophile. Running to the wall that had no door, no window, no hope, he slammed both fists into the hard surface, again and again, howling:

“PETER!”


	7. Pray for Chaos (Peter's POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter didn't expect to get out of his new cell anytime soon.  
> His savior was even less expected.  
> "Hello, little spider."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter’s finally getting out of here, yeah! Also, GORE (what Peter sees, not linked to Tony), so please read at your own risks.  
> Bravo to anyone who expected what happens in this chapter. Also, a giant hug to you all <3

Peter sat with his back to the wall facing the door. If he hadn’t been still groggy, aching and nauseous, he might have been delighted to finally, _finally_ see a door, an honest-to-god door, but his mind kept circling back to that dark place his body had been introduced to. Still, he kept his eyes locked on the door, on a possible exit.

He was so tired, so… done. How long had it been since he’d been locked up in this awful place? At least weeks, three or four, if he had to guess. It would drive anyone mad to be kept away from the sun so long, without a clue as to what was happening outside. There had been a war raging on, and he had been fighting, and he’d been holed up away from the real world with a man he considered a friend and who had-

He bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood. Whoever it was who thought it was a good idea to lock up Spider-Man and Iron Man, he was going to kill them.

The fact that the thought of murder didn’t cause him to question his own sanity should have sickened him.

It didn’t.

He didn’t try to keep track of time, and tried even less to come up with an explanation for his transfer in another cell, one that was completely dark, without furniture, and smaller than the one he’d occupied before. He was slightly worried about Mr. Stark, but a part of him (he did his best to ignore it, to bury it, it was so ugly, so shameful, but it grew within him like dandelion) wanted for Mr. Stark to hurt as much as he was hurting. To be punished, perhaps, for what he’d done.

“Fuck.”

He hid his face between his knees, but the nausea wouldn’t recede. Remembering where he was, and the kind of sadistic enemy he was up against, he lifted his head and glared at the door. Damn, but he hoped someone, something would come to check up on him. Any excuse to fight would make him feel better, really. He didn’t mind getting hurt some more. Perhaps if he got beaten up bad enough, the pain in his chest would stop bothering him so much?

He clenched the muscles in his thighs, feeling how his hole contracted at the tension. _That_ pain was fading ever so slightly, but of course thinking about it brought back vivid pictures of how it had come to be, and Peter couldn’t look at the door anymore, couldn’t keep it all inside, he had to let it out, to let go of this part of himself that was rotting, corrupting what was left of his moral compass...

He was on all fours and throwing up while his sickened mind conjured a picture of Mr. Stark’s hooded eyes on him. How his mentor had drunk in the sight of him back in their room, like Peter was a chosen piece of meat he couldn’t wait to devour until all that was left was exposed bone. Mr. Stark had handled him like a mean to an end, had touched him with the kind of savage delight hinted at by distasteful tabloids, had kissed him like Peter held on to a piece of his missing sanity, had fucked him, _fucked him hard_ , again and again and again, not seeing the pain in Peter’s blood-shot eyes as he spilled himself inside him…

Peter’s chest heaved. His body wanted nourishment, but he had never been so ill-disposed towards food. He wasn’t even sure his constricted throat would allow for him to drink, especially now that he knew just what kind of drug tended to be mixed in their water.

_Theirs._

They were in this together, and Peter had just enough compassion left to wish for the both of them to leave this place…

Bang!

Peter recoiled back to his haunches, freezing in the sudden silence that had followed the clamor a few yards beyond the door. It sounded like metal cracking, but much more metal than the one making up a simple door, or even a simple wall. As if a whole part of the prison was being torn apart.

_BANG!_

He scrambled to his feet, eyes fixed on the door, one fist balled, his other arm extended, wrist exposed, so that he could use spider silk to slow down whatever came through the door. Just to make sure, he shot a single thread to the doorknob, and yes, still working. He let out a shaky exhale and leaned into the wall, hoping that the tremors coursing through his body from the stress wouldn’t betray him at the worst time.

**BANG!**

“Hello, little spider.”

None other than Loki stood amidst the destruction he’d just caused, in full battle gear with the horned helmet he was known for. There wasn’t a speck of dust on his green and black armor in spite of the dust floating in the air, and not one strand of dark air out of place. His face was very white, but so were his hands, as he extended them in the universal gesture of peace.

Peter congratulated himself for not screaming, and also for staying upright.  

“W-What is going on?”

“An excellent question from your perspective, I am sure. Come, we must leave.”

Peter shouldn’t have been so relieved to see Loki, of all people, but in his limited experience, destruction meant disturbance, change of plans, and Loki wouldn’t just blow the place up if he’d been the puppeteer behind this show of cruelty.

“I shan’t carry you,” the god added impatiently. “Either you come with me now and benefit from a limited offer of protection, or you die here. Your choice.”

Peter knew better than to try and run in spite of his haste to leave this wretched place, so he took it slow, one step at a time. Left, right, left, right. Forwards. He could do it.

The god didn’t comment on his limp and spun on his heels, striding out of the room as soon as Peter went into motion. He didn’t smile, and neither did he try to comfort him, which Peter appreciated. He’d grown used to darkness. If too many good things happened at once, if everyone he met suddenly became nice, he would surely break down. It was like food, his aunt would say: no binging on an empty stomach. God, his aunt...

“How long-” He coughed, trying to follow the god navigating the chaos he’d created in his own name. “Thank you. Also, do you know how long- how long I’ve- we’ve been here? And why we are here, and how-”

“You’ve been imprisoned eighty-two days,” Loki replied without a lick of compassion. “And you’re both still alive, which hadn’t been expected by the quim.”

Eighty-two days. Peter’s throat tightened.

“As for how and why, little spider…” He stopped Peter with a hand and caught his chin, tilted his head up until they locked gazes. “ _Remember_.”

And Peter remembered.

He remembered the fight against the Chitauri, the cruelty of the alien beasts sent by a powerful alien going by the name of Thanos. He remembered how Mr. Stark had insisted he stay at the base, and how Peter had retorted that the team couldn’t afford to be short of any member for that fight. He also remembered Black Panther, Dr. Banner and Vision at his side. The civilians, he remembered, too: headless, armless, legless bodies littering the concrete, ran over by cars driven by equally dead drivers, men and women and children with lifeless eyes… He’d done his best to save as many as he could, and so had all the others, Mr. Stark included, but the enemies were too strong, too numerous, and no one except that crazy council wanted to put a nuke into play again.

 _I will protect you,_ Mr. Stark had said as he’d blasted to death another Chitauri while Peter glued a pair of warriors to the remaining standing wall of a collapsed apartment block.

Peter had shot a couple of spider silk explosives for good measure, and watched the heads of the bastards blow off in a colorful bouquet of brains. _And I will protect you._

Loki had materialized twice in Peter’s direct vicinity. At first, Peter had thought he had another enemy on his hands, and had readied himself for another kind of fight, but Loki had grinned at him, called him _little spider_ , and killed ten Chitauri with one spell. His second intervention had allowed for both Mr. Stark and Peter to deliver a powerful hit to the enemy.

Neither of them, however, could react in time when a second magician entered the game. A woman, a red hair with green eyes and a mad smile. Before Peter could immobilize her in his webs, he felt his limbs turn to stone, and his body collapsed like a house of cards. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Mr. Stark fall under the same spell. He tried to scream, but he couldn’t move his lips, couldn’t move at all, and the sky receded, every light snuffed out, as he fell and fell and fell into oblivion.

He remembered. Loki saw the knowledge in his eyes and released him. Peter gasped for breath and clutched his chest, and it suddenly occurred to him that he was completely naked. Stupidly, he opened his mouth to scream, but Loki yanked his wrist with enough strength to break the bones of a normal human being. Snap out of it, Peter told himself, both angry and so afraid he couldn’t seem to get enough air to breathe. He doesn’t look, he doesn’t care. You don’t care.

“Why have you helped us… Why do you help us?”

“I’m not helping you.”

Peter frowned, not understanding, and focused on his feet. Right, left, stumble. Right, left, a hand to the wall, to steady himself. Loki had released his wrist, and Peter almost wished he hadn’t.

“Why the blood work?” he tried again. “They took blood from us… why?”

“To enhance their soldiers, of course. I’m not sure if it worked, but I will investigate out of curiosity,” the god added a bit hastily, as if to make sure Peter wouldn’t mistake his intentions for _caring._

“But who-”

“The Mad Titan. You know his name, but don’t say it, or I shall leave you behind to fend for yourself. This-” the god gestured to the dark hall, “is all part of his courtship of Lady Death.”

“Who?”

“Death itself,” Loki repeated impatiently. “He is wooing her. Using the Avengers as the sacrifices is self-indulgence."

Peter would have been sick all over again if there had been anything left in his belly. He almost tried to hug Loki, because this was another living being who wasn’t really planning to kill him in the next ten minutes, and he needed the warmth, the comfort, even if he ended up being despised for it.

But Loki was walking too fast, and Peter struggled to keep up with him.

“There was an a-aphrodisiac,” he whispered, fisting his hands at his sides, anger leaking into his voice. “What was that supposed to accomplish?”

“I killed the goddess who’d betrayed us to offer her services to the Mad Titan,” Loki replied with undisguised hate. “Red hair, mad. Rings any bells? The aphrodisiac was a potion she designed herself, to make the path to death as painful as possible, and encourage betrayal and violence, but there won’t be any more of it, at least not in any of the living realms. I beheaded her.”

Peter nodded in quiet approval, too tired to be truly horrified by himself. He’d hated feeling so helpless, and Mr. Stark- He rubbed his eyes, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over. He had to be strong, _or he would be left behind_.

“Mr. Stark, where-” His voice broke.

_Can’t resist you._

_That’s it, open wide._

_Stop fighting._

_Want you so bad._

_Come to the bed, let me have you._

He shoved the memories deeper into his mind.

“Do you know where he is?”

Loki shot him a piercing glance, and Peter almost recoiled at the fierceness etched on his features. The god wasn’t showing much of what he was feeling, but there was no doubt in Peter’s mind that he felt a great deal. If his own senses were dialed to eleven because of his transformation, how must it be for a being that transcended mortality, whose strength, senses and powers far exceeded his own?

“My original plan to use you as cannon fodder might have become obsolete,” Loki said casually, walking faster now, and Peter had to run again.

“Cannon fodder?”

“You weren’t the reason I came here, obviously. I didn’t even plan to… let’s say, rescue you.”

Peter’s brain was working overtime. “Mr. Stark?”

“He’s interesting… for a human. And your species needs him to defeat the Mad Titan.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“You may.”

“Why have you rescued me in the end?”

“Because you didn’t do with him what the others did to their… partners.”

Peter’s hackles rose in dreadful anticipation. The others? Plural? Others as in…

“Partners?” he said faintly. “Do you mean to say- Are the others-”

“See for yourself.”

They’d just turned into a new corridor, wider and well lit like the stage of a macabre play.

Peter stopped dead and stared.

They were cells. On all sides. Cells of a size similar to the one he’d been locked in, with similar furniture. They were all see-through, at least from this side.

And there were people inside. Dead.

Dread settled in his stomach. He couldn’t breathe. He felt as if he wasn’t fully in control of his own body as he walked to the closest cell.

“No.”

He swallowed hard, forcing down the urge to vomit, as he saw how much blood covered the see-through wall. Dried blood was splattered over the floor and the bed.

Black Panther was dead. The former king of Wakanda lay on his back across the bed, unmoving. He was missing one hand, and the angle of his left leg hinted at broken bones. His lips… There was something very wrong with his lips, and his eyes, god, they’d been gouged out, and nail marks covered his cheeks.

His cock was missing.

Peter collapsed to his knees and threw up. The violence of his retching caused tears to stream down his cheeks. He leaned into the wall, trying not to make too much noise, so that Loki would not be annoyed and abandon him just yet, but then he sensed a hand on his shoulder and was hauled to his feet.

“Now is not the time,” Loki chided him.

“Offering, we are offerings,” Peter babbled, sobbing uncontrollably. “From a monster who means to take over Earth, to a monster that calls itself Death.”

“Not only Midgard, but that’s the general idea. You need to prepare yourself for war, little spider.”

War. WAR. But Peter was still seeing Black Panther, still thinking of how much worse it could have gone in _their_ cell. They were still alive, if deeply scarred; Peter didn’t think for a minute that Mr. Stark didn’t regret what had happened. He’d seen the truth in his eyes, if not in his words, or his acts.

He wanted to reassure him, to tell him he was still his mentor and friend, that he forgave him, because it hadn't been him, hadn't been them.

He wanted to hurt him as much as he’d been hurt.  

Neither of them could go back to who they’d been before. 

_Good boy._

_Sleep tight, kid._

_I love you_. _Love you, love you, love you._

He wept as he walked in Loki’s steps. He wept because he hurt and he hated, and because he couldn’t remember what love was supposed to be.

_Love you._

Friend. Mentor. Betrayal.

He would have longed for the soothing finality of death, and the permanent amnesia it promised, had Death not been an actual monster... and Earth in desperate need of his humble services.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next is Tony... and he's not in a good place (but then neither is Peter). At least, there's light at the end of the tunnel... until the next tunnel.  
> *sorry* *not sorry* *all the angst*


	8. A Spark of Light (Tony's POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony hadn’t counted on the help of one God of Mischief, but he couldn’t care less about the shape of their ticket out of here. The kid needed to get back to his aunt, and he…  
> He thought he deserved whatever befell him, be it death or war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: I've changed a couple of things in this chapter (and one line or two in the previous one) for events and thoughts to agree with the revamped plot. There are no spoilers for IW yet, and I will tell you if that changes. I merely thought I would make it clearer there would be a war, and Thanos' going to make an appearance at some point now. But don't worry, the tag 'happy ending' is still valid!
> 
> I expect the story to last maybe another 8/14 chapters or so? If you’re already tired of the angst, I recommend, uh… I’m not sure what I recommend, because there’s plenty more of that coming up. BUT. There will be no more rape (sort of?), and Peter’s becoming a BAMF. Shit will be dealt with in due time.  
>  **Trigger warnings: more suicidal thinking, minor characters death**

When the wall in front of him was blasted to pieces, Tony was still too shocked to scurry back and protect his face. Instead, he stayed on his knees, barely interested in his fate.

In this godforsaken cell, he hadn’t found anything sharp enough to end his pathetic attempt at being a decent man, and it was probably for the best; he couldn't afford to consider suicide, even if he deserved it. After all, he had to get the kid out of here, and he knew enough about spur-on-the-moment decisions and self-harm to be aware that going for the thin, vein-layered skin of his wrists, was not exactly an efficient way to go. So he'd compromised and dug his nails into his arms until a little blood had flown. It had helped bring his focus back to the kid, to his guilt.  He could visualize it now, in the cloud of dust forming where the wall had been.

Was the man who’d tried to see Peter through his panic attack at the beginning of their imprisonment and the monster who’d raped him really the same person? Tony tasted bile in his throat. He could still see the kid’s mouth on him, wet and hot, his impossibly tight throat fitting his throbbing cock like a glove. Could still remember with painful clarity those little keening sounds he’d made whenever the head of his cock had caught on his rim, and the even more beautiful noises their fucking had drawn from his raw throat, and… Tony clawed his throat. He couldn’t breathe right, and he coughed, and coughed, tears streaming down his face, too caught up in self-hatred to realize that the dust was starting to clear and figures could be seen through it.

A shrill voice pierced the silence, yanking him back to the present.

“Mr. Stark!”

The kid’s voice was both music to his ears, and a slap to the face. Tony lifted his head and wasn’t sure what to make of the sight of the kid frantically jumping over the wreckage of the wall of his prison, _Loki fucking Liesmith_ trailing behind him in full battle regalia. He would have been glad the kid looked less terrified than the last time he’d seen him, and fucking relieved that someone had put some clothes on him, if not for the god shadowing him.

What was that asshole doing here? Did he… Tony scrambled to his feet with a feral growl, hands balled into fists. Did the God of Mischief play a part in any of this? In their imprisonment, in the drug that had made him…

“Stay away from him!” he bellowed.

The kid skittered to a stop a few feet away, unsure, terror slowly twisting his features, and Tony forced himself to ignore the urge to hug him (the kid would kill him if he tried, and understandably so) and strode towards the god, making sure to keep Peter at his back, where he was... protected?

“What the hell are you doing here? Bored with your prison yet?”

The god’s expression was devoid of any emotion, but Tony thought he spied a flicker of something intense, something like longing, before Loki closed the distance between them so fast Tony couldn’t possibly have had the time to stand back or hit him. His breath caught as the god’s hands cradled his face, the fingertips pressing hard into his temples. The touch was cold, but the memories flooding his mind made everything else irrelevant.

He remembered.

He remembered the fight against the Chitauri in vivid details, and the name of the asshole-wannabe-god who thought it a good idea to send a first wave of warriors to assess the defenses of Iron Man’s home planet: Thanos. He remembered telling Peter to sit this fight out, and being disobeyed. He remembered his guilt and his relief, as he watched Spiderman fight alongside him and Vision.

The memory of his promise to keep Peter safe wrought a wounded gasp from his throat. The kid was nothing short of fabulous, if a bit young to fight (and even more to fuck, stop, _stop!_ ). And the kid had promised to protect him, too.

He also remembered the details of Loki’s intervention. The god had helped them.

And then he remembered the red-haired bitch, a magician who’d spelled him unconscious, and probably delivered him and the kid to that awful cell. Was she the one who'd given them that damned aphrodisiac? He shivered as he reined in the urge to scream himself hoarse.

“Fuck,” was the first thing he said once Loki let him go. He backed away from the god, angrily wiping away the tears that had started to dry on his cheeks. “Fuck!” And then he punched the wall, again. His bloodied knuckles didn’t like it, but Tony fed on the pain as it if could help with the self-loathing.

Of course, nothing could and nothing would.

“What are you doing here, Loki?” he repeated, still in a defensive stance that wouldn’t help one bit if the god decided to attack.

But Loki only stared at him, that unexpected longing still plain as day.

“To help, obviously.” He licked his lips. “Temporarily.”

“Why?”

The god gestured at the destruction around him. “This is no chaos I claim. Your world shall not be destroyed by a madman I personally want dead.”

Tony knew better than to trust him on those words alone, but he was tired as hell, and he wanted to be alone somewhere in a dark pit and wallow in his guilt without his victim’s eyes on him. Judging. Tony could hardly blame him for that, though.

It didn't mean he trusted himself not to break down if he took another look at the kid.

“How did we end up here and why?” he asked, voice rough.

The god’s answer was succinct and to the point. Tony felt his temper rise as Loki explained how the goddess who’d captured them had planned to pave their way to Lady Death (death personified? duly noted) with pain by means of a lust trance, for the sole purpose of getting into the Mad Titan’s good graces.

“None of what you did under her foul influence was your fault,” the god offered unexpectedly.

But Tony wasn’t listening to that bullshit. He felt the guilt, and he wasn't in the habit to offer shelter to useless, unfitting emotions. If guilt churned in his otherwise belly, it was for a reason, and that reason stood right behind him, silent and so, so vulnerable.

And so paradoxically strong. _“We will get out of here. We will be all… right.”_

So much better than he was.

“I’d rather have beheaded her myself,” he found himself saying.

“Later, I could bring her back to life, if you so wished.”

Tony made an impatient gesture. He would deal with god-related bullshit later. Besides, he needed a distraction from the kid’s silent condemnation. He needed information, so that he could be useful for once. God, if he could get the kid out… “Ok, so who else was held prisoner? Because it wouldn’t make sense to focus on little ol’ me.”

“The king of Wakanda, I believe he is called. He’s dead, killed by the Widow.”

“She’s dead, too?” Tony felt numb.

“No. I let her out.”

“Anyone else we know?”

“They couldn’t capture the Hulk, and Barton killed himself. The others are not part of your group.”

The empty space in Tony’s chest expanded so fast he had to lean into the wall lest he collapsed. He heard the kid move and instinctively turned away, only to see Peter recoil like he’d been hit. He opened his mouth to apologize, but closed it again. Apologies wouldn’t change what had happened.

“So let me get this straight: you’re helping us because we’re both siding against a mad alien that had insulted you personally?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t you teleport us back to the Tower then? You know, the one place where I offered you a drink and you threw me out of a window?”

“I know perfectly well what it is you’re refereeing to, and yes, I will teleport both of you there momentarily.”

“What are you waiting for?”

*

Loki had provided him with a black shirt and black pants, clothes that fitted him perfectly but that Tony would throw in the trash as soon as he locked himself in his bathroom. He hadn’t been able to be thankful for that small mercy, or to go all geeky over the mechanisms of teleportation. He’d taken one look at Peter walking, no, _limping_ , and wished Loki could have ‘lost’ him on their way back to the Tower.

No sooner had his feet touched the roof of the building than he sank to his knees, a strangled sob escaping his throat. Air. Sunlight. Fuck, but he’d missed the polluted air and that cancer-promoting sun. His eyes latched upon the destruction down in the streets, the result of the battle against the Chitauri, and he even found _that_ reassuring.

He also found the urge to jump reassuring, and didn’t think any of it until he realized he’d spoken out loud, and both Loki and the kid looked at him with… no, wait, how could it be concern? From Loki, he could almost understand; the god's mind was a bag full of cats, but Peter?

“You would have died had you not… obeyed the urge to mate,” Loki said, while Peter averted his gaze and stared at his feet. Naked feet, bloody and so small. Tony remembered gripping them as he fucked that lithe body into the flour, searching for a deeper, better angle.

It was a good thing there was nothing left in his stomach, really.

Loki seemed oblivious to his inner torment, or he didn’t care. He probably didn’t care. “It is magic I abhor, what she did, but I know of its intrinsic workings,” Loki went on in clipped tones. “Whether you liked each other was never taken into consideration, but…”

“But what?” Tony snapped.

The god’s expression was blank, his eyes seemed fixed on a point past Tony’s shoulders. The sharp, cool wind blew a black strand into his face.

“The fact that neither of you killed the other hints at some form of previous… affection.”

“You’re saying that agent Romanov didn’t like Black Panther at all?”

“She didn’t like him enough, at any rate.”

 _What?_ Tony felt like he was drowning all over again, and his mind was spinning, his body feverish, his eyes filling with tears of frustration, and he wanted to stand and push those words back into Loki’s mouth, because it couldn’t be true. If he’d been a better man, if he’d really liked the kid, he would have been able to resist.

God, Pepper. Had she been the one sharing his cell, would he have raped her, too, or was he _only_ into taking bright, courageous sixteen-year-olds’ virginity? His hands found their way to his arms and began scratching again. He thirsted for his own blood, more than his worst enemy ever would. He should bleed for what he’d done, bleed so much, and-

“Make me forget,” he pleaded suddenly, looking up at Loki and uncaring of their positions. “If you can return my memories, can’t you suppress-”

A hint of anger crossed Loki’s face. “The mind is a very fragile thing. I’m afraid I can’t, not if you are to fend off the Mad Titan when he finally makes it to Midgard. You have but months to prepare. And really, Stark, do you really trust me that much?”

“And why the hell not?” Tony exploded, letting go of his arms and scrambling back to his feet. "Can't you see I'm in no fucking state to prepare for a fucking _intergalactic_ war?! I am- I can't- How could I-" He shouldn’t provoke a god, not if he wanted to live, but that was the whole point, wasn’t it? Perhaps Loki would be so kind as to slap him, and break his neck in the process. Lady Death, was it? He was so on board with that plan, unless the lady didn't accept monsters like him in her domain. Selling weapons and not giving a fuck about who bought them was bad enough, but fucking teenagers? 'Accidental rapist' wasn't a thing, Tony thought fiercely. It didn't matter that he'd been drugged, just as it wouldn't have mattered if he'd drunk himself into a stupor. He was always responsible for his actions, and he'd... he'd fucked up big time.

In the open air, with Peter safe, it was so much easier to see it all. To let shame and self-hatred swallow him. To ignore the very important fact that his skills (he winced) as a weapon smith might be needed to save billions.

“What is it you want?” he taunted the god, blinking fast, and not thinking at all. “Not money, I gather, but I could give you-”

 _My body or my technology, or both. I'd let you turn me into a slave, your own personal whore. Please_ bleed  _me so I can start to atone for my sins-_

In a flash, Loki held him against the glass wall. Tony’s mind was spinning. How much of what he’d thought had he actually said out loud? From far, far away, he thought he heard Peter cry out his name, with the fucking ‘mister’ attached to it. He deserved no respect. 

“Stark.”

His feet didn’t leave the ground, but the pressure on his throat was enough that a few dark spots floated in his vision.

“What I want is irrelevant,” Loki snapped. “You will stop whining this instant!”

Yeah, Tony had absolutely no business whining. The kid. He had to make sure the kid had everything he could possibly need, both to come to terms with what had happened (it that was even possible) and to go on with his life... preparing for war.

Loki let go of his throat to cup his chin. The touch was surprisingly soft, and so was the look in his green, wide eyes.

“I forbid you to kill yourself over something you couldn’t have helped,” the god hissed inches from his face. “You have twenty-four hours to come to terms with what had happened, and then you will begin to prepare, Stark, because he is coming, and Midgard  _needs_ you."

On those parting words, the god opened the door to his penthouse and shoved him inside. Tony didn’t need to check behind his shoulder to know that Loki had vanished as soon as the door had closed, or that Peter was leaning back into this very door, not daring to come any closer to Tony in his own domain.

“Welcome home, Sir.”

Tony opened his mouth, but no word came out. Jarvis, who could hardly help him without knowing what was wrong, proceeded to inform him of everything he’d missed. His words, of course, fell on deaf ears. Not that Tony hadn't missed him, because he had. A lot.

The fact was that he'd never felt so much like a stranger in his own home.

Of course, he hadn’t raped anyone before his imprisonment. The god and the kid’s reassurances to the contrary didn’t make it any less true.

He didn’t think the day could get much worse or better by that point, but that was before Pepper entered the penthouse.

“Tony!”

He reached behind him, but Loki was long gone, and the kid... He stiffened and strode to the bar, past Pepper, past the life he'd thought was his.

“Please give Peter everything he might need," he said sternly. He should probably eat something, or at least drink water, but the bottle of scotch felt like an old friend in his hand. Probably the only one that wouldn't shun him for what he'd done. He poured himself a full tumbler and drained it while Pepper started crying, demanding his attention, demanding answers. Tony felt like a dick, but since he was one on top of being a rapist, he might as well finish his fucking drink. Peter was back in New York. Nowhere was really safe with the threat of Thanos looming over their heads, but it was much better than the confines of a cell _being_ _raped._ Surely Rhodey and Bruce would agree?

Fuck, there was a war coming to Earth, and he wasn't even ready to be alive.

“What happened, Tony? Tony, _please_ , you look- Should I call for Bruce? You were taken prisoner along with him, right? You and Peter? Oh, Peter…”

As Pepper turned her focus to the shivering kid at the door, Tony emptied the bottle into his tumbler. He had twenty four hours to drink enough alcohol to disinfect himself raw, and chase away the taste of Peter, of his sweet semen and musk, of his pretty tears and blood. A very fine line to walk, that one. 

The scotch was hot in his throat, a living fire in his belly. Pepper's voice had receded into the background, replaced by the rush of blood in his ears. He blinked once, twice. Tasted salt as the first tear of desperate rage hit his lips. It sure had broken the kid to be raped by Iron Man, but it had torn _him_ , Tony fucking Stark, to pieces, too. Not that he was a victim. Not that he deserved anything else than a lifetime of nightmares behind bars... or in this case, something equivalent: becoming the Merchant of Death once more.

"TONY!"

He was in Afghanistan again. In New York; in the death of space, falling, falling, falling... Peter on his knees, Peter promising him that they would  _get out of here._ Sweet Peter, the only light in the darkness he thought he'd never leave...

Fuck! Pain shot through his chest, and if his hand shook as he slammed the empty tumbler on the counter, it wasn't because he was tired or angry or desperate, even if he felt all of those things.

His hand shook because he'd come to realize that deep down, a part of him, however small, however ugly, had actually enjoyed it.

Twenty-four hours.

The clock was ticking, and his mind was breaking. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Tony *hugs* Stay tuned, because next comes Peter's reaction to his newfound freedom... and Tony's definitely not the only one to freak out!


	9. Better to Be Alone and in Bad Company (Peter's POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter has thought his newfound freedom would help him deal with what has happened in that cell.  
> He was wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank all of you who have come this far into the story. It’s hard to write; I can only imagine how heart-wrenching it is to read it. I promise there IS a happy ending, we’re just not leaving AngstTown right away.  
> *Lots and lots of hugs!*

Peter didn’t stay long in the penthouse. As soon as objects started flying, he ran back outside, away from the violence, away from the memory of it, and the guilt and rage that permeated the air.

The rain soaked his clothes in less than a minute. Peter stayed still under the black clouds. There was some measure of comfort to be found in the cold, in that wetness he hadn’t seen nor smelled in eighty-two days. He darted out his tongue and let the taste of nature, of freedom, wash away the pang of blood, and that older, gut-wrenching bitterness that was Mr. Stark’s seed.

Soon enough he shivered, but there’s no reason to go back inside just yet. Peter didn’t want a roof or walls, he wanted the horizon on all sides, along with the certainty that he could leave if he wanted. He tested his spider shooters; still working. His aim could be better, but he was shivering too much right now, and anyway, he was quite content to stand on that roof for a while, looking down at a city that he used to call home.

“Mr. Parker?”

“What is it, Jarvis?”

Peter hugged himself. He felt so close to crying, but he’d done that enough in the cell.

“Would you like your suit?”

“Karen..." He used to feel safe, happy with Karen. There’s no doubt in his mind that he would again, in the future, but right now, knowing that Mr. Stark was the one who'd designed it for him, to _protect_ him, he couldn’t put it on. He just couldn’t.

He had to screw his eyes shut and take a deep breath not to start crying. No more tears. No more.

“No, thank you, Jarvis, I’ll pass.”

“I am not… sure…” It wasn’t like Jarvis to hesitate so much, so Peter waited patiently for the rest. “I was not programmed to help Sir or his friends in such situations,” Jarvis admitted. “But I wish to make you feel better. Is there anything I could do? I don’t suppose you want to eat?”

“No, I don’t.” His voice wasn’t loud, but the AI had a keen earing, just like himself. Peter smiled sadly. “Actually, there’s one thing you could do. Could you tell…” He paused briefly, reconsidered. “Could you contact May and let her know that I’m all right? I don’t think I could speak to her right now, but…” All of a sudden, the hair on his neck stood on end. “Jarvis…”

“Yes?” The AI sounded… wary.

Peter’s stomach clenched painfully. “Did you already contact her?”

The three seconds it took Jarvis to answer felt like an eternity. “I am very sorry, Mr. Parker, but there was an incident, and your aunt... There was nothing to be done. She has passed away three weeks ago. There was a fire at the apartment and-”

But Peter had stopped listening. May, dead. Some days (some nights), she was one of the only reasons he felt like holding on to his sanity.

May was _dead_.

The wetness on his face was not rain anymore, but tears of anguish that kept streaming down, down, down… His knees gave, and Peter collapsed on the concrete, sobbing loudly as thunder struck somewhere in the vicinity. May was dead. The king of Wakanda was dead.

The memory of Mr. Stark holding his hand in the cell came unbidden. Hugging his knees as if his body might shatter if he didn’t keep it all together, Peter wished that it was Mr. Stark who’d died. That May was still alive, in his stead. He refused to worry anymore about his mentor today. Deep down, he knew that the rape (he hugged himself tighter) was not his fault, that Mr. Stark was biologically weaker, more susceptible to the drug, but the man had still harmed him.

He screamed at the sky. Screamed because his body refused to move, when the only thing he wanted was to stand at the edge of the roof and let himself glide into the storm. Not to die, no. After all, there was a mad and powerful being who meant to bring Earth to its ruin, and Peter was needed to defend its people. His mind could break, his body could cower, but he had to live on, and fight for those who couldn’t fight for themselves.

But oh, how easy it would be to fall. He had no wings, only spider silk. He wasn’t sure he would die on impact, even if twenty stories _was_ high. The prospect was a little depressing.

His laugh sounded every bit as hysteric as he felt. He couldn’t die. Couldn’t _afford_ to die.

“May.” The whisper floated in the wind. “I wish it had been me.”

It was too bad he couldn’t get drunk because of his powers. Then again, it was probably for the better, because he didn’t want to return inside and see _him_.

Loki had told them they weren’t dead because of some form of previous affection. Well, Peter thought as he wiped the snot at his nose, he’d certainly looked up to Mr. Stark before their imprisonment. For the most part of it, too. He’d… admired him. Would Loki have lied? No, Peter was willing to believe that Mr. Stark had considered him a friend, too.

They had trusted each other.

Peter dug his nails into his legs, teeth clattering. Perhaps the cold appealed to him because of how warm the aphrodisiac had made him feel. Cold was good. Cold helped him to remember there was something worth living for, even if people had died, even if a good chunk of himself was all shriveled up like a dry leaf.

He wasn’t even sure why he was crying anymore. After all, there were plenty of reasons to choose from.

His aunt’s death.

The awful end of warriors who’d fought with him against Thanos, like Black Panther.

The fire that had destroyed their apartment.

The lingering ache from the rape.

The maddening switch from affection and hate towards the very man who’d unwillingly raped him.

The hollow feeling in his chest, whenever he thought of living.

Peter hiccupped as he stared down the damaged city. Colors blended into one another like a painting left outside during a storm, smiling faces morphing into unrecognizable blurs, drawn buildings torn to shreds under the rain’s assault.

The only thing he could see with any clarity was branded on his eyelids: Mr. Stark’s face, the handsome features twisted in agonizing pleasure. Peter cried harder. Was all the water in his body leaking through his eyes? It certainly felt that way. He wanted out, _out_ , but there was no other shell that would welcome him, no anonymous, angst-free body he could inhabit for the time it took him to recover.

Did he even have time to mourn? As he lifted his chin and wiped his tear-strained cheeks to stare at the grey sky, he wondered when Thanos would send the next wave of his army to subdue humanity. If the self-appointed god of the universe would come down himself to watch their surrender.

Would Loki help them, or was his two interventions the extend of what he was willing to give?

Eventually, the rain stopped. His stomach growled, but Peter ignored it. The fight had ceased inside the penthouse, but he wasn’t ready to go back inside just yet.

After a few pathetic attempts, he managed to convince his body to let itself be dragged to the edge of the roof. The wind was stronger there, but Peter would not fall by accident.

“I am sorry to interrupt your mourning, Mr. Parker, but I can’t let you try parachuting without an actual parachute.”

Peter’s voice was hoarse. “It’s ok, Jarvis. I don’t plan to.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Would you like a blanket? Your friend Liz knows you are alive and can come get you, or I can ask-”

Peter shivered violently. “Not yet, Jarvis. Not yet…”

Not ever, probably. Peter didn’t think he could ever see Liz and not feel sick. She deserved someone who hadn’t taken pleasure in his own rape, no matter how artificial that pleasure had been. She deserved… better.

Peter wasn’t sure what he deserved exactly. To exact his revenge? He _would_ fight against Thanos.

Would he attempt to punish Mr. Stark himself?

His heart hurt. His head hurt, too. Even before the aphrodisiac had turned Mr. Stark into a monster, and Peter himself into a horny beast, there had been… something. A spark of… interest? A tenth of a crush? Something beyond admiration and respect, perhaps. It had taken eighty-two days of imprisonment for Peter to realize it.

Unless that _something_ would never have existed without the imprisonment, without the rape?

Peter looked down at his legs; there were parallel red lines all over his calves. Blood had started to dry in patches around his ankles. There had been so much blood in their cell. Blood coming from inside him, when Mr. Stark had fucked him and fucked him and fucked him…

Peter’s chest heaved, but there was nothing more to throw up. He didn’t even _like_ men, not like that. And yet his body had experienced pleasure at being handled by Mr. Stark’s hands, by Mr. Stark’s mouth, Mr. Stark’s _cock_.

 _Good boy_.

Peter’s hole twitched. God, this was fucked up. _He_ was fucked up. Those two words had been whispered to him back when Mr. Stark had helped him deal with a panic attack. They had been innocent, at a time when the trust between them, the friendship, was still intact.

Mr. Stark had never been attracted to him; _he_ had never been attracted to his mentor. There had never been anything real between them, only…

Only the potential for more, had their lives taken a different path.

He bit the fist pressed against his chapped lips. A good… third of him urged him to rush back into the penthouse and make sure Mr. Stark wasn’t going to drink himself into an ethylic coma, because he knew, he just knew, that his mentor tended to deal with guilt (he’d better feel guilty!) indulging one of his various self-destructive tendencies.

The other two thirds, however, demanded his blood.

Peter lay down to his side. The stench of car exhale and garbage had never been so enticing. He inhaled. Exhaled. In that cell, a mere pawn in the game of a sorceress, he’d held on to the certainty that he wouldn’t become a monster. He’d been so sure he would retain his sanity.

He had to stay sure.

But he felt so tired, so little. The sky stretched over him like a blanket, dark and sparkling with stars. Infinite. He was just a tiny spider who didn't even know how to spin its webs anymore, insignificant.  

The stars became a blur.

*

It was Ms. Potts who came to him later that night, or rather early the next morning. Her eyes were puffed red. Peter was pretty sure he too had the look of someone who’d cried their heart out. He still hadn’t eaten anything, still hadn’t drunk a drop of water, or coffee, or anything else. He needed more time. Trust.

“I’m so, so sorry,” she whispered, and then sank to her knees to pull him against her chest.

Peter let her wrap him into an embrace. Part of him cringed at the touch. However innocent and comforting it might be, but another part, the stronger one, was aching for some compassion. Ms. Potts rubbed his arms as she whispered something about sleeping and a hot shower. Peter didn’t nod, didn’t react. Ms. Potts, however, didn’t seem to expect a reaction, and continued to talk as she transferred some of her warmth into his shivering body. Shivering? He hadn’t felt the cold for hours.

“… can’t apologize enough,” she said, voice muffled by what could very well be tears.

The words tumbled from his lips without his consent.

“Why?”

His reaction seemed to startle her. “Why?” She sounded surprised, and more worried than before. Gently, she hooked a wild strand of hair behind his ear. “Because of what happened in that cell.”

Dread turned to lead in his stomach.

“He… Mr.- he told you about that?” His thoughts were going in various directions at once, and his mouth remained open, letting out whichever thought reached it first. “Don’t you blame me for any of it?”Ms. Potts relaxed her grip and brushed his cheek. Peter tensed but followed the motion as she cupped his chin.

“Why would I blame you, Peter?” Her eyes were brimming with more tears. “He took advantage of you.”

“We were both drugged,” he protested, but his voice lacked conviction, and he could see in Ms. Potts’ face that she thought so, too. He tried again. “Neither of us wanted this, so neither of us should be blamed for it.”

“Peter, it’s ok to-”

Showing more strength than he thought possible, Peter scrambled to his feet and stepped back.

“Peter, wait!”

But Peter ran. He rushed inside the penthouse and yanked open the door to the staircases. Ran down a floor. Two. Three. His heart beat madly in his chest, and blood rushed in his ears.

_Love you, love you, love you…_

He barreled into the hall of the Tower and almost tore the main doors out of its hinges. Outside, there were a few people walking, and they all stared at him, it seemed, as he crossed the street moments before a truck honked and braked, slaloming wildly to avoid a collision that wouldn’t happen because Peter was fast, he was so thirsty and so hungry and so tired but he ran faster than he’d ever run, wet clothes clinging to his skinny frame.

May was dead.

The god of lies had saved his life.

The man he’d admired his whole life had fucked him until he’d bled, and then fucked him again, because they’d both been helpless, tricked, puppets for a show of intergalactic proportions.

Peter never wanted to feel so powerless again.

So he would make sure it never happened.

He was going to kill the Mad Titan.


	10. Help Me Bleed (Tony's POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony's pretty sure there's no light at the end of that fucking tunnel for the likes of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: SUICIDE ATTEMPT! (no one dies, so don't worry - too much?)  
> If you ever think about suicide, please talk to someone, and get <3\. Tony is sure as hell not an example to follow.

When the kid left the penthouse, Pepper didn’t stop shouting.

Tony didn't stop drinking either. He was actually doing a pretty good job of holding on to his bottle of scotch, as if such insistence would keep the two bleeding halves of his self together. His head hurt, and he really wished Pepper would return later to chew his head off, but he had no right to ask anything of anyone, especially not of Pepper.

And even less so of Peter… Turning away from the glass doors leading to the roof, where the kid was a fixed dot in a landscape of dark, threatening grey clouds, he drank avidly at his one-way ticket towards oblivion. And drank some more for good measure.

“Anthony Edward Stark, you will talk to me _now_!”

Pepper was crying. Tony had never meant to make her cry, but he’d done it, numerous times, by being who he was: reckless and self-centered. And now… And now…

The fire of alcohol didn’t cleanse him of any sin, but for a moment, he could almost pretend it could, for a better man.

“Tony. _Look at me._ ”

Pepper, his lovely and lively Pepper, cupped his jaw with one hand and took away the scotch with the other. Tony let her. The self-loathing coursing through him increased tenfold as Pepper started to caress the coarse hair on his jaw. She looked so vulnerable, and it was only too easy to see Peter in her stead, crying, too. And so pure, in his forgiveness.

_We will get out of here. We will be all… right._

Tony squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t look at Pepper, couldn’t look at Peter; the one person, during those horrible eighty-two days, whom he’d sworn to protect with his life. But the threat hadn’t come from outside, no matter was Loki claimed. The enemy was neither Hydra nor a terrorist organization. Sure, that Thanos who’d sent that last wave of Chitauri was an enemy that must be destroyed, but Tony just couldn’t muster enough energy to care about the fate of humankind right now.

He only cared about what he’d done to Peter’s past, present and future, which meant, of course, that he only cared about himself. Like always.

It was no wonder he’d raped Peter, so focused on his own needs. On the desire he hadn't fought the will to fight-

“Oh, Tony…”

Tony only realized he was crying when Pepper wrapped her arms around him and hugged him fiercely.

“Come and sit down, please. God, Tony, you’re so thin-” She screwed her noise, probably from the smell of him, but she looked so distraught that it only added to her general aura of sorrow.

Tony followed her to the sofa in a somehow dazed state. He had twenty-four hours to get his shit back together. Months to prepare Earth’s defense. Would Peter have enough of a lifetime to recover from his mentor’s treason?

The plush cushions of the sofa hardly registered against his dirty, pale skin; he could have sat on concrete for all the good it did him. Still, he allowed Pepper to arrange him in a sitting position, and stayed put as she left the room, ‘only for a minute’. She came back with a soft wet cloth, which she used to clean a bit his face and neck.

“Here, drink this. I will take care of you-”

With a pained groan, Tony knocked the glass of water from her hand and scrambled back to his feet. Water. He couldn’t drink water. Who knew what _was_ in that glass? He-

“Tony, please, talk to me…”

Tony, who’d been on his way to the elevator and the sanctity of his workshop, swirled around with his hands balled into fists.

“What do you want me to tell you, Pepper? That I- In there- _Fuck-_ ”

He couldn’t seem to get enough air, and the more Pepper tried to touch him in an obvious attempt at comfort, the more his chest constricted. He trapped himself between the elevator’s closed doors and Pepper. The taste of bile surged in his throat.

When he spoke up at last, it felt like vomit on his tongue. The words were all equally ugly, meant to purge his body of every last flicker of hope. He didn’t try to lie, didn’t attempt to disguise the truth in any way. And if he saw his own accusations reflected at him in Pepper’s eyes, if he recoiled from the blow like the pathetic man he’d become, it was a hell he’d designed personally for himself.  

“‘We were drugged’; _that_ ’s your excuse?” she sputtered.

His (probably former) girlfriend stared at him in disbelief, and with a healthy dose of disgust and anger. Tony sagged against the elevator doors. He deserved nothing else. Nothing. Else.

“It’s not an excuse,” he said in a murmur, voice rough with exhaustion. It was so hard to speak, so hard to just _breathe._ “But you asked why-”

“He’s a child, Tony!” Pepper was crying again, and she was hugging herself. That gesture, more than the tears, punched Tony in the gut. “He was your- God, how could you- Have you seen him?!” Pepper shouted, gestured wildly at the doors through which Peter had vanished. “He was not even supposed to fight in the first place and now-”

Tony’s control snapped. “DON’T YOU THINK I KNOW THAT?” he roared.

“DON’T YOU HAVE ANY SELF-CONTROL?” Pepper screamed back. “I THOUGHT YOU'VE CHANGED-”

“I NEVER WANTED THIS!”

“THEN WHY DID YOU DO IT, TONY?!”

When Pepper raised a hand to slap him, Tony let her. The sting barely hurt. Pepper took a step back, cheeks wet with tears, and distrust etched into her face. It was Peter looking at him. Peter whispering the words that he, his protector, should have said.

_We will get out of here._

“I was worried sick,” Pepper whispered. “I thought you were dead, that I would never see you again.” Her lower lip trembled. “And now there’s a war coming to us.” She shook her head, wiping her tears with the back of one hand. Determination replaced anguish. She’d always been strong, Pepper. So much better than him.

“I… I can’t talk to you right now.”

"I understand." He really did. "Will you- Can you make sure Pe- the- Will you get the doctor-"

"I will make sure he receives all the care he needs," Pepper cut him in her most cool, professional voice. 

Tony watched her leave, and felt how part of his heart withered away, never to bloom back into the softer side of Tony Stark.

*

For the first six hours, Tony got drunk. He also ignored every call and notification sent his way. Jarvis, of course, learnt what had transpired in that awful cell; Tony told him everything, in much cruder terms than he’d used with Pepper. And Jarvis, being _his_ AI, reacted exactly like Pepper hadn’t.

So Tony made sure to black out for a while.

*

_… he was pumping his cock in and out that tight, perfect heat. Never in his life had he experienced such bliss, or such anguish. When he spilled himself inside the kid’s hole, his whole body seemed to combust at once. He moaned the kid’s name as he held on to his lithe form, rocking their bodies together while his breathing slowed down... and then picked up speed again. The smell of blood and sweat permeated the room, and yet he wanted more, wanted him so much…_

_God, he could never have enough-_

_Blood-_

_There was blood everywhere-_

_“PETER!”_

Tony woke up to the sound of his heart hammering. He gulped for air, but found water instead.

“Fuck.”

The sudden lights blinded him. He scrambled back and hit his head against something metallic. His worktable. That must be it.  

“Fuck!”

He was shaking all over. The kid. Where was the kid?

“Sir, you are at the Tower. Mr. Parker had just left. He’s in no danger, and I keep monitoring him.”

Had he spoken aloud? "Has he seen a doctor yet?"

"Ms. Potts hadn't had the time to convince him, but she has just left the Tower to follow him and make sure he will be fine."

"That's- That's good." 

Tony pressed his brow to his knees and hugged himself. God, he was such a mess. At least his former girlfriend and acting CEO, so strong and reliable in the face of adversity, would take care of the kid. He couldn't take care of them. Couldn't even take care of  _himself._ He was curled onto himself under a table, and all he could think about for any length of time, all he could smell beyond the acrid pang of burnt plastic and scorched metal was blood. Fresh blood. His heartbeat went wild all over again. Beads of sweat ran down his shoulder blades and dripped down his temples. The little whizzing sounds he was hearing was his own breathing, apparently. His hands tightened on his legs. Back and forth, back and forth, twenty-four hours, blood, bad, so wrong, death-

“You are having a panic attack, Sir.”

“J-Jarvis.” Tony’s vision was starting to whiten out. “Am I- Make sure Peter- and Pepper-”

He returned to his nightmares.

*

The kid’s aunt had died during the attack.

Tony screamed as he fired one of his gauntlets at the prisoner’s clothes he’d tossed on the floor. He stood naked in front what remained of his numerous cars, tools and creations: torn pieces, melt plastic, ashes. The only things, the only beings he’d spared were his bots. All of his suits had been dismantled by his shaky hands and destroyed along with the rest, with the egoistical exception of the gauntlet currently burning the clothes he’d worn in the cell.

It felt so good to be angry, and yet so wrong, because the despair was no more at the forefront of his mind now. He _should_ suffer, should be unable to move. He deserved to spend the next thirteen hours wallowing in agony, and then (possibly) die at the hands of an impatient god.

Loki had said he was essential to Earth’s defense, and that might be true, but Tony didn’t care.

“Is Pe- Is the kid all right?” Tony wanted to slap himself; of course the kid was not _all right_. “I mean, is he- Is there-”

“He seems distressed, but otherwise unharmed. Ms. Potts is with him. I believe he will come back, Sir.”

Tony grimaced. “He probably shouldn’t.”

He was thoroughly exhausted. He leaned back into the wall, rubbing with his gauntlet at the spot in his chest that hurt so much. He was free at last, but he felt anything but. What would happen to Peter now? His only remaining family member was dead. He should have a home, get to go to school and spend time with his friends. Would he let Tony help him, even remotely?

He fired at the wall. The Merchant of Death was slowly waking up inside him, testing its new reach.

*

The next time he blacked out, he woke up to Jarvis’ chiding voice.

“Sir, as per the protocols you’ve implanted yourself, I will have to alert a third party if you go on drinking in-”

“Mute,” Tony growled.

“You can’t mute me if your life is in danger, Sir.”

“My life is not in danger, pal.” He somehow managed to pick himself from the ground. Every part of his body ached. Good. The blood on his hands confused him a bit, but the pain was welcome. Where was his fucking scotch? He shot a murderous look at Dum-E, but the bot only rolled away with the fire extinguisher. Tony started to pick at the wounds in his palms, but that fierce a thirst couldn’t be ignored for long.

“Stop hiding my fucking alcohol, Jarvis.”

“It’s for your own good, Sir.”

“What part of ‘I raped a sixteen-year-old’ did you not understand?! _Damn it!_ ”

He slammed his fist against the wall, hard enough, and in exactly the wrong angle, to hurt his hand as much as possible. He needed it, his body kept telling him. Needed sleep, needed water.

Well, his body could go fuck itself, because it was a treacherous, lecherous son-of-a-bitch and Tony would _end it_ before letting it harm Peter any further.

“It wasn’t your fault, Sir.”

Tony laughed, low and angry.

“Trust me to invent a machine that doesn’t condemn rape.”

“I don’t condemn rape, Sir.” Jarvis sounded insulted. “But you were both drugged, and thus unable to consent-”

“If he could say no, so could I have, but I didn’t!” He punched the wall again. His temples throbbed. “And don’t you dare tell me it’s about his fucking metabolism, ok?! It’s a matter of will, and I’m so fucking weak-willed that I saw him _cry and I still fucked him until- until- Fuck!_ ”

There was so much blood on his hands now. It didn’t matter that part of it was a product of his memories; Peter’s blood would forever be on those ugly, manipulative hands. What had he told the kid, while he’d forced himself on him?

_… you’re so tight, never had so g-god, I love you…_

He’d never said those words to anyone before. He didn’t know _how_ to love. How could he, when everyone he cared about ended up being hurt by him? No, when he’d said those words to Peter, they'd meant something else.

They'd meant _I want you_ , and _I’m sorry, too._

He was beyond redemption. He had never deserved love, and now he certainly didn’t deserve forgiveness. Still, part of him craved it. And it was wrong, because even as he stared at the blood on his hands and felt horror at what he’d done, he couldn’t help but remember that all-encompassing desire.

He’d been _mad_ with it, enthralled by the youth who’d spend night after night plastered to his side in that little bed. How could he ever have hoped to resist him? Drug or no drug, Peter Parker was still beautiful (too young) and fascinating (brilliant, loyal, pure in a way that Tony had never been). That skin, all warm and smooth under his greedy fingers and greedier mouth, those trembling thighs, that tight hole he’d licked and fucked at length, but couldn’t get enough of, that pink, uncircumcised cock that filled with blood in his mouth like it belonged there, the taste at the tip sweet, honey-thick when pleasure was shared, and he could swallow what resulted of his own passion…

He mouthed his fist, sobbing with muffled sounds. He hadn’t cried so hard in years. He sobbed huddled into himself, into his shame, snot and tears mixing in his goatee. He felt so dirty he would probably need to bleach the skin off his bones to get rid of the filth.

He shouldn’t have liked any of it, but he'd had. Blaming the drug for the desire that had warmed his blood at the sight (and god, at the _touch_ ) of that naked lithe body was pure denial. Of course Jarvis would declare him innocent; it was his creature. And Peter had been, too, in that cell, forced to do his bidding, objectified for his master’s pleasure…

Oh god, he remembered now. Remembered that there had been blood on the kid’s head because Tony had slammed it against the wall to make him pliant-

He’d fucked him until the kid had passed out, and then fucked him _again_ -

There had been blood _everywhere_ , Peter’s blood, and the kid’s heart had beaten so fast against his own frantic one, like a mockingbird’s about to die-

Tony had almost killed him-

He threw up all over his naked lap. He didn’t remember eating, but he vomited until there was nothing but bile, and then he collapsed in the viscous and smelly fluid. He should pass out like that, and drown in his own shame, his unforgivable guilt.

There had been so many times when he could, _should_ have died, but none of them had felt quite right, he thought, still sobbing. He’d always had more to accomplish, tasks and wonders lined up before him, but now that he’d freed the person he’d vowed to protect, now that Peter was safe from the world, safe from _himself_ …

Loki had been wrong to appoint him defender of the Earth. Loki was probably just as twisted as him anyway. Tony should have tried to kill him when he'd had the chance, and then-

“Sir, I am going to call-”

“Override: Anthony Stark, alpha command.”

The workshop, suddenly, was eerily quiet. With one hand on the wall behind him to help his stupid uncoordinated body, Tony rose to his feet. There must be a bottle of scotch somewhere-

It took some time to find, but when he uncovered his most secret stash at last, he felt the pain in his chest ebb a little.

He opened the bottle and jerked it towards the ceiling. That bottle was worth a few hundred bucks, and he wouldn’t drink a single drop.

“Here’s your courtship gift, Lady Death,” he crooned in a voice he barely recognized as his own. "Please go fuck yourself."

He smashed the bottle down on the only table still standing and stared hard at the broken piece of glass in his fist. Amber gold spilled on the floor, and soon, red followed.

The pain was at least as beautiful as Peter had been, whispering the words he couldn’t get out of his mind.

_We will get out of here._

Tony Stark didn’t do love, didn’t know how, but as blood coated his torn wrists in a parody of his destroyed suit of armor, he thought he felt his heart break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Hugs*

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains rape/non-con between Tony and Peter, even if they are both victims (read: they had been drugged). This story is like 80% angst, 10% smut and 10% fluff/happiness (which includes a happy ending for both our boys _as a couple_ ). Be aware of the dark road ahead of you.  
> \- Love, Sparcina


End file.
